There it is,
the sweet limn
of destruction,
which absconds
from the naked eye,
and which arbitrates
of wits to obstructions,
that one may perhaps not
find themselves
safe while the sun
hazels over the cliff,
over which the
shadows reminisce their
dubious feats. And
how must
the good counter them?
For are they
not a foe
to the benevolence of mankind?
Are they not
the reason for this jeopardizing circus
of addiction and obsession and connection?
And do we not need
to draw our sheathed swords
from their heaths?
Lest we
wish
to let them win and brand their
pride over our foreheads
like empty vessels.
No,
I will draw this diamond
sword from its' heath
and I will find myself
amidst the battalion of the right.
YOU ARE READING
an abstract limn
Poetry❝ but this time i will not be lifted from the realms of this catastrophe, this time i will be dipped into the honeyed lox of this saccharine thought; drowning in the depths of the wilted tulips that have not ever to sprout. look at these alstroemeri...
