July 5, 2017

what we ravaged of ourselves in the reeds ...


time and again we bent 
lent what is to what could be 
all our if only if only if onlys 
the sirens and harpies 
bore children 
of the trolls 
they roll called halls 
filled with stained notebooks and doodles 
most were composition black 
we lacked perspective 
and we were young so we leaned 
guiding light inside to out 
and turned then, a smile shouts 
who are you when eating your own soul to survive 

the stolen pieces of myself: 
a shell game fanaticism 
of a driven, by lost purpose, mind 
who is a product of what gives 
a slave to the sieves 
and funnel wombs 
event horizon-ed 
deviant intent 
the mutation 
of course, is 
always why 

I write 
I rite 
here from there 
where I used to be 
future and luxury 
of knowing 
not to know 

EJR ©

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