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Robert Cayne Apr 2018
A silent voice.
It speaks to me.
And knows my thoughts.
And knows my soul.

It dwells within
The ghost
That dwells within
The soul.
Sets harbor there.
Robert Cayne Apr 2018
1 follower.
Robert Cayne Apr 2018
Take this pawn
And its cousin kings and bishops
Wood flecked
With grooves gnawed by time
As it becomes you.
Robert Cayne Apr 2018
Playing a dance on memory,
A word on the tip of a tongue.
Playing a dance on memory,
A tune unfolded.

Playing a dance on memory,
An ancient chanting rite.
Playing a dance on memory,
A shot down the tank.
Robert Cayne Apr 2018
Amidst breathtaking ignorance,
And breathtaking scope,
Lies a sea of innocence,
And a vulnerable *******.

To comb through the space
Of space and time,
Leaves one vulnerable
To the wicked mother's curse.
Robert Cayne Feb 2018
The unequal lies
Of artistic design,
Become attuned
To something blind.
Needle this,
Thread that.
Through it all
Something black.
art, randomness, design
Robert Cayne Feb 2018
Ghostly by the decaying remnants
Of a human's past,
Awake in the artifice,
In this gothic museum, We learn
Through those lambasted, ***** coral eyes,
Lives A ****** in sterilized porcelain.

Attest not to what is in the background,
The artwork. In the foreground of the clinic is
Satan's work.

Like a curator of convalescence,
Who (as if to) merge the jelly of the gourd
With the opaque hollow body
I seek ownership of myself
Through being owned by another.

Somewhere someone is shown a space.
Their naked, mangled, convulsed self
In a rage of discontent In the cage.

Here the rage is in the spoiling of
The sacred ****** in us all,
The sounds are not our sounds.
The sights are not our sights.
museum, satan, orphanage, hospital, lost, chaos, devastation, psychiatry
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