[9] THE TRICK IS TO KILL THE VERSUS
Are we not an imitation of the universe?
We are here to bleed in explosions.
Live in rust, burn in fuel, a bomb to
rip our minds naked and defenseless.
Are we not bodies with a single soul?
We are coordinates connected
to a center. Defective machines in
mechanical cities, programmed for
repeating the same faults
again and again.
Are we not enemies created from love?
We are soldiers bred for war.
Cold and dead, hearts trapped in cages,
keys hidden somewhere forgotten.
Are we not existing in disasters?
We are born to be heroes, capes with
or without, but I supposed
we are also doomed to be villains--
human and not, all at once.
YOU ARE READING
Witherland
PoetryAgain: precarious. When blood remains, I see the world tripping over the edge of the sword, red and forgotten. They drop, drop, drop-- balance. And we fall endlessly. [a poetry series by alice © 2017]
