Trapped
In his own corrupt self-deprecation.
“Where am I now?
Where have I gone to?
This is not foreign.”
His face,
Beaten.
His clothes,
Tattered.
Desolate in four dimensions.
Not abandoned,
For he has the company of a thousand thoughts teetering on transmission.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
Trapped
In his own corrupt self-deprecation.
“Where am I now?
Where have I gone to?
This is not foreign.”
His face,
Beaten.
His clothes,
Tattered.
Desolate in four dimensions.
Not abandoned,
For he has the company of a thousand thoughts teetering on transmission.
Request permission to use this poem