The Eyes

Grace is ephemeral,
lacerated by time

Aesthetics are eternal
ignoring the persona

What is a tablet of melatonin crushed into a swirling ice-storm of memory

There are no questions!

If every wanton idea spoke with a mark,
there would be no disease to convert us to puritans and lab technicians

Forgiving is the first step,
but forgetting is impossible unless your mind collapses to the demands of capital

I didn’t die any;
I compensated

From politics, persuasion, out to personality, on a strange island-

My eyes,
the ones that grew without a trace of my own volition,
saw nothing out in front of me;

a permanent endlessness that sings like a bluebird without fright;

as I walk through the mist, the wholeness of my body is always ready for the taking,

back to consort with the humus and sediment,
from which many edible weeds grow to feed our sacrifice

every little last believable iota of life was kindled together long before we had language and concepts of the universe.

Where we come from is the decay of better forms
broken down into a palatable gum.
The spent grain that went out with the compost,
went well into my hollow leg.

Yet I still push to love days and sleep,
softening the inflammation of society

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Published by

errorattic

Writer, aspiring farmer and homesteader in North Georgia, making ends meet and trying to become more enlightened.

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