Poetic

Infinite Fatality 

You may think that time can wait
For your surly suicide state.
But what is that if not rot,
Festered foul and come to dot
That once 360 degree psyche
Now battered blue and lost at sea.

Now welcome your forebears’ faces
Ghostlike. Blame these sepulchral spaces.
Space is a bottomless well, free fall hope.
Time is the length of a noosed rope.

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Poetic

Heathen grace

And with a smattering of congenial disgust
I catch the fate of this feeble mind, steeple chaser, remiss crime.
A spear tip gut, entrails gush, propane cut.
Looking for the one, knuckle-white clinger for every last grain of disdain.
For the one had got away, gotten on for a song, adorn
The disgrace of erring heart, stain of blithe man.
Disaster passed her, laughed a great one, karma come undone.

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