I feel so lame,

crippled and obtuse,

ask myself “what are you doing?”

and “what’s the use?”

dry stem within me,

soul seared and weary,

Am I,

but who are you?

and do you truly do,

what you say you do?

find myself lacking,

comprehension or backing,

because, what it is within my spine,

is something less than divine,

and intangible,

tangent mandible,

chews holes through souls,

like voles and moles,

and bullet holes,

without controls,

and to me this dearth and clatter,

really doesn’t fucking matter,

so stand by with hands aside,

and for God’s sake don’t deride,

you said you knew me, asked my name,

but now I see it’s all in vain,

and if you ever say it loudly,

I will simply let the shroud be,

if ever time and light traversed,

the spectacle of lovers cursed,

I’d be certain in my way,

to close the curtain- end of day.


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