We choke as boundaries are birthed through
rusting machines, everything winding – leaking away.
Our appointed doctors play God; their pills nullifying our emotions;
their chemical compositions that play author to our perspective;
their blood curdled saliva clings to their canines like stalactites.
Throughout history we have been infants in an unexplored, overgrown garden,
without a colour palette that blends softly into our pale notion of blandness.
Through crimson lips, poisoned by promise, we admire those who live on ink-blotted parchment,
and we’re brutally honest even if our brains can snip away the truth.
These fruits of laboured flame lick the wounds of lovers ablaze;
and when the world rotates, I feel out of sync,
out of tune.
I see my reflection with full clarity: trapped in glass, shrieking to myself, ensnared;
a beetle, glued underneath a shoe; a shadow of what I choose to be.
Try as I might, but this glass won’t quiver. My knuckles will weep, but no cracks
will score my freedom.
My senses become sedated, I relapse. Every grain of this has been for
nothing…
Valid Verbosity 