Poem 1


There are withered tree limbs that have whittled winding abysses beneath my eyes
As if my own sprawling, calloused fingers act as executioner’s horses,
Tied and tugging painfully throughout twitching nights
In vivacious condemnation of occipital prisons,
Begging for the lakes to spill out as grey sea that paints walls in pulsating diamonds
Tranquility crystallized in moments that plead to be seen.  

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