Poems

Purge of my fate

My abode a faultline,

Distortion so Sublime

Fates’ a joke, far beyond

A fine generic poke

Days’ of rue, things of past,

Am a part of spell cast,

Scars and burns are just a serve

Food and fodder to think ahead of curve

Time’s a learn a mold

Cards of mine packed and sold

Luck for me a lame ruse

Birth itself an act of truce

Hand of her to be held,

Brag of success under your belt

Thought’s of her Burden of blame

Recitals of which remind me of sorrow and shame