Saturday, April 22, 2017


Like a falcon

Falling from the sky

Tissues of psychosis

In the searing sun

There is some paradox

Within my soul

That answers to the question

Why we are the jungle:

As if the confession:

I live for the carnage.

Like thunder in the desert

Insulated in the dust and wreckage

As blossoms in the night

Ephemeral and deft

How many æons has it been?

At the helm of my voice

Consumed in pointless conversations

As a perverse misuse of language

In tears of man

I have seen the mind lacerated

it scars in time, I guess,

Yet, this is not of my concern

Like tearing at carrion

recognizing opportunity

where articulating

is a survival tactic

on par with poisons and thorns

reducing us to bones in the merciless sun

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