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Jul 2016
Why can't I fly? Because, I am caged in the bowels of bitter, deceit.
Why can't I dance? Because, my body is bound to the gravity of unacceptable, honor.
Why, can't I sing? Because, my lungs are choked by this haute reservoir of insanity.

But, the Trapeze, artist...
The trapeze artist, climbs the ladder of awe, itself, and walks the silver lining of death.

Why can't I write? Because, my hands are bound in the filth of my past,
meddling with broken things.
Why can't I speak? Because, the honor I am bound to, is to live, life, behind closed windows.
Why can't I see? Because, the blindfolds that sheath my eyes from sin, are more sin than any satan incarnate.

But, the Trapeze, artist...
The trapeze artist, climbs the rungs of the narrow road, and walks over the pit of doom, to save itself.
There is no explanation for this act.

So, why can't I shout? Because, I am voiceless to the concerns of the audience.
Why can't I beg? Because, the world has no room for weakness, fear and more loss.
Why can't I scream? Because...

Because the Trapeze artist dropped off the high-strung ledge of wonders...
And plummeted into a darkness, that has robbed my audience, of all conscionable thought.

Because... the Trapeze artist, is dead.
This is a poem that I wrote back in 2010 (on July 4th), which is the year I consider to be the dawn of my writing. It was the year that poems came to me effortlessly, continually, like bottled messages from yonder lands. I sat on the shore crafting a boat to make it to yonder, where I thought yonder held the love I so craved and spoke elegantly of. Now I may have been to yonder, and wish to never return...


Written by
DEW  28/M/New York
(28/M/New York)   
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