Sep 2013
I am a master of Half-Truths
An artisan of rhetoric
So skilled in the craft that
I have lost the ability to
Differentiate between fact and fable
My thoughts are a flume of paint
Colouring ***** water
But the fish do know
What is swimmable and substantial and timeless
And they kiss at the river beds
Tickle the hollows of my ear drum
Eliciting a perpetual popping sound, bubbles I presume
Reality fuzing as O2 with a shield impermeable to the waves
But it draws on my heart
wholehearted admirer of beauty that I am
To be constantly checked
With a map set to fluoresce
An blinders on
I paint my trails
An artisan of rhetoric
So skilled in the craft that
I have lost the ability to
Differentiate between fact and fable
My thoughts are a flume of paint
Colouring ***** water
But the fish do know
What is swimmable and substantial and timeless
And they kiss at the river beds
Tickle the hollows of my ear drum
Eliciting a perpetual popping sound, bubbles I presume
Reality fuzing as O2 with a shield impermeable to the waves
But it draws on my heart
wholehearted admirer of beauty that I am
To be constantly checked
With a map set to fluoresce
An blinders on
I paint my trails
Once upon a time I was in the habit of sitting and writing, without pause to edit or think of a more appropriate substitute for a word, for as long as I felt necessary. I wrote until I felt I had cleared my mind; until I had vacuumed all the poisons from the pit of my belly so they would no longer rot and sting me. I feel it's time to revive the purging series.
