Thursday, 10 January 2019

too bloody write

too bloody write 

burrowed mosaic of scabied words 
and crawling
under the skin of thought,
itching to be scratched and bled
into a crucible of verse, that
aught not be the dark blood’s regret
and maudling 
clasped in hands of absolution;
but, rapier sharp in fires of ice,
pinion the feral butterfly of thought, and
anointed in the font of the soul’s i do
proclaim it thus, and over such words
in perusing,
you will be the judge of that.

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