I was sick in my normal way

passing the time

passing the day

meandering and calling it creativity

as if a mountain stream could be


as if an avalanche could be


and my monster was behind the fence

slashing and gnashing his teeth

claws ripping at the wood, rabid

splinters of bone and wood and blood

and the foam from my monsters


flew flavors of violence and silence

was murdered after it’s start

my heart thick in my chest

pit dark and damp

meandering is slandering and pandering

with hopes to bring the prize

the cries of sacred lies

look to share the rooms of familiar eyes

and I would call it suicide

now.  And then too, only I didn’t know it



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