He’s stumble-hungry,
& ****** to the sky
manifest destiny
in her naive eyes
Yet amongst the
ethanol mirrors
and heavy smoke,
this sharply curious
array of odd pieces
begs the question:
I am not vestigial, am I ?
Posing some lovely injury,
he bares his hands-
& in his silence,
he admittedly fails to ratify
I am, I am
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
He’s stumble-hungry,
& ****** to the sky
manifest destiny
in her naive eyes
Yet amongst the
ethanol mirrors
and heavy smoke,
this sharply curious
array of odd pieces
begs the question:
I am not vestigial, am I ?
Posing some lovely injury,
he bares his hands-
& in his silence,
he admittedly fails to ratify
I am, I am
Request permission to use this poem