computers, networks down,
monitors stare blankly --
my brain explodes
monitors stare blankly --
my brain explodes
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In the trenches I bet my limbs
one by one to feel no more as those who try by folly's whim to touch my skin as Webster's pore How many words are cast aside without pierce by daily chore to travel meaning through the vein and speak these movements in rapport What science measures only weighs pounds of study in search for fact until the suffrage bears the fate to feel these ghostly limbs intact What I need is found forsaken paths of ink denounces truth how the road is overtaken by the commoners sleeping muse Is there gain to self disclosure finding norms that pinch the skin stake the claim of understanding whats it's like to live therein Humanity creates the cause that wondrous dance onto the white a story told in blackened bold emerging from the pen of night The significance of lowly hears the utterance of the land speaking soft to purging hours that have filled our working hands Will poets serve omissions or have limbs now found the fate to be no more than scholar's print or a mass for propagate Will we stay the course of tearing threads that bind the world for shape and give the course of living back to all in poet's wake |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 100 words remains the approximate target. Archives
October 2020
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