“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, May 3, 2019
Buried alive
My heart thumps
apeish pounding
and I try to keep my fangs
tucked in.
Wired and winded
together, denial was the
black matter
we refused to identify.
Barbaric as it Be,
pacing ourselves
in our cages, deepening the ruts,
muddy we get
stuck
unable to climb out
of our graves.
Painting by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, 'Mountain Forest Path' c. 1919 [Public domain].
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