who is this I am
me to practice arts
like this
deception, a killing
silence to graves
of sorrow’s regret.
with this heart
the ego. who
leads whom? within
this season we
are all murderous
agnostics, climbing
skeletal ladders
the backs of fellow
enthusiastic
romantics, hopeless
the ones who believe
in this beauty.
what misinformed this
notion of the companion
but what can
the serial monogamist
attest to?
the everlasting struggle
of evol against
itself. way(back)ward
words painted to
dead lips. deaf
poetry of helplessness.
when do we begin?
the road to salvation
under
construction. but we live?
today or another day.
they all pass
with heavy luggage
the scorned
lover cannot un
pack.
I am only here.
already
silent.
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