A proto-poem


On storm scented days, the sky was populated by grey warbirds

their feathers consumed the bright, with lighting and rain for words

On war scented nights, all the stars joined into a sonorous roar

to shatter the million poisonous bits making up its dark core


I’ve been flying through that black, a falcon shaped tragedy-

cursed to orbit around the same spoiled stars and their alchemy

they taught me how to be broken, confused, silent and angry

the pull of those black stars on my mind, I only sensed misery


Warm whispers under the wings of a toothless harpy on her back

The North Wind joins in, sings of time and negative feedback

I never crossed the border, never put a toe over the line,

didn’t work up immunity, hadn’t overcome this fever of mine


How does the weight of the world feel to a snowflake of ash,

the shapes of quartz, and lime, marble to curve and gash?

I always thought of my scar, as if they were my tiger stripes,

my blood was saturated with poisons of different types


That lump of wind-up mechanics I had carefully nursed

into a beat of function, but it bore barbed wire at first

and an elliptical purgatory of bad intentions and despair

but truly, it’s time, experience caught in a burning snare.

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