2009
There is this thicket through which this isthmus does shine
an oblong object, obscure and in my mind.
A skinny strip, scabbed and sick, it's scathe I face as I approach it
and across it I walk and atop it I rot, my thoughts all forgot.
Surrounded by a water with waves I have brought her, on I wander
and I institute an order to issue my tired tissue forward.
And the farther I follow this fear-finished face
the farther I'm followed by my fate and I fade.
And as a frontal lobotomy is to a clustered autonomy,
all of which was robbed from me is to the inability to follow me.
And into this window I watch, wither, and wait
for into this isthmus, I'm too distant to wake, and
far into this isthmus and my sanity does it take.
No comments:
Post a Comment