It seems like the
end of the world, doesn’t it? The way the fringes fall apart? the way the edges
of the polluted, dying oceans just roll out into nothingness? And then,
This
is poetry, of the coarsest sort.
That magnetizes,
rhapsodizes, without really saying anything…
(without really saying
anything)
It looks at you Do you look back?
do you dare?
This is
poetry, of the cruelest sort,
That demands, that escapes
the grasp of pattern and recognition and familiarity,
wants you to fill in the void—
but you know, it knows all too well, you can’t...
When you wake up in the
middle of the night, jumping up from a fearful dream that suddenly escapes you
as your head rises from the soft pillow—
When you open the door to
success, and you’re met with metallic laughter, so you close the door, and the
laughter echoes in your hollowed mind for eternity—
When you come close, closer now what can/do you see?
{enter nightmare}
It’s shadows, shadows,
shadows everywhere. It’s sick, really. Even when there isn’t any
light...still...just the sounds of distant, ocean waves, washing out the
brightness, masking the dead mutterings of something else—
This is poetry of
the darkest sort.
Can’t you see the black? —really?
(Haha)
Can’t it see you?
—where?
(...) —
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