Nov 2017
Those blind metaphors are repeated—
Ended and repeated and thrown in to the abyss
An ovation of an encore of a long known remix;
The rant of a child so long out of breath
Bleated from the mouths of those bubbling with death.
The skin crawls over like a well worn pen
Reverberating echoes thrown back and again;
The metaphor reflected in the mutilated mache
Deaf voices scream all there is to say—
Metaphors repeated and repeated.
Ended and repeated and thrown in to the abyss
An ovation of an encore of a long known remix;
The rant of a child so long out of breath
Bleated from the mouths of those bubbling with death.
The skin crawls over like a well worn pen
Reverberating echoes thrown back and again;
The metaphor reflected in the mutilated mache
Deaf voices scream all there is to say—
Metaphors repeated and repeated.
I often find myself abhorring my own writing, even as I type each letter. Sometimes I am unable to escape the feeling that everything has been said and why do I bother throwing my muck in. Yet here I am tossing it on the pile. Gods save me I am nothing but a hypocrite.
