i am a sort of — uh well
do i remind of the winter solstice?
manufactured authenticity, painting
calculated legacies, circular stride
holding binoculars
and gazing from night to night
all the while i live
in my beautiful pinhole
/
sight, herald of wounds
rinse, rinse, rinse in red scrutiny;
scour down to my finest bones
and remember, and see.
do not ask me
who i am or who i've been
i am but here before you
on display.
/
carry me from the rack (careful!)
i want you to hold these edges
bring me close,
kiss with eyes blinding—
read the script, can you,
of straying photons?
it is where i am.
/
you nemesis of time,carry on, won't you?
let the blaring fill out my jigsaw;
it is so dark here. hand me a candle.
but please, not the summer solstice
— it will burn
it will burn
it will fog over —
the silver is ruined.
the texture the sickness that is me.
YOU ARE READING
cacophony
Poésiea trail of poetry drawn between inward glances because i gave up on shouting myself down. | voice one: 01-13 | voice two: 16-29 | voice three: 30-36 | voice four: 37-42 | p.s. the first few poems are really bad. ~ hymn ©2020