Thursday, May 19, 2011

A thought.


A single though to plague my mind.
It devastates and rages within, confined to ideal circumstance.
It lends space for bloom,
But all that grow are wicked and deranged.
Mangled with the sounds of crying eyes.
Gouged by the meaningless monologues of some horrifying necrosis.
The thought but festered before I reached the shore.
And I felt a burning in mine mind.
Plunder fast and rid me of this curse
Or leave it to hover in disguise.
Let each to affect the other
And in conflict, resolution will form.
And if collapse I before solution’s sound,
Place bars around my bones
And weights upon my breast.
Let me to be a barnacle
And without air, the thought shall die
And we again be free.

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