Strings, all gone. What I sing, a bomb
Wrong. But I’m Human. Mistakes made. Skate with brazen blades.
My wake, stay laid in wades. In my
Same writing, deciding knots I need
To attack. Capped in the map’s lap.
The new James Joyce. I’m hardly
The tame choice. At the end of the
Day– my writing’s from pen in a
Play. Shakespeare, looking into lakes
Clear. You can’t shake fear when the
Talons slide under the skin, wrong decisions in weeks, blunder and sin.
Recapitulate odd visitors to my primary. Trees in sizzle bake, pleas
Do tickle-take. No sense, I’m too
Tense. Pull back inertia, and vice
Versa. Imagine conversations with Poe, his raven, ’cause I’ve been brazen. Self maven. No guru, but what I’ve been through left me scarred. Far under par, but hardly. Further invigorated by what seemingly marred me.