I awake
A tawdry mess of lumpen limb
and spaghetti senses.
Adage
Upon adage pulverised on
pulsing crag, my pulped wrists
Of rage
Assumed long-lost, wizarded
away, with imprudent folds of trust long-left
In lakes
Of lonely. Drowned in this
azure, even the wanton-weary cannot rest
(Or wake)
Surge, then,
If dare you do, and in
challenge to the sorry sun, whose filthy light
Begins
To snide into these rabid
eyes, shout atonal assurance; and banish trite
Incense
Of gratitude given weakly,
naiveté lost cheaply. With clattered conscience, delight
In limb
Locked fallacy, only to wake
with a world whose hope spins bland and blind.
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