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And if I grow, the harvest will be mine and only mine
Because I am my own and you are yours.

The soil does not reap the rewards of the roots which brought forth spring bloom nor autumn crop.
The cloud which carried rainfall does not demand praise for the leaves it fed.
The sun does seek praise for the flower its rays coaxed heavenward
And you will not take credit for my soul and it’s abundance.
That is between me and my creator.
Once flesh, soft features,
Screaming voice, blue.
Now bones, decaying in the soil.
The snakes ****** your skin,
The worms became your friends
The birds ate your eyes, your spirit in the clouds flies by
And I will watch you through the screen.
And hear your voice within my dreams,
When I awake in 68’
To play a dangerous game with lady fate
To meet you, a sacrifice I will make.
Mannequins in the shop front window,
The new years batch take their seats,
Lined up on display, unknowingly.

Between words you lick your lips - quivering
Under your brow, behind your eyes,
******* each body in the back of your mind.

Little lambs to the slaughter,
So meek and so mild.
Just as your precious Herbert
Speaks of his young bride.
Skin on soil - I sink
My lungs a network of roots,
I breathe with the leaves.
One with nature
The mind it yells ‘imposter’
Each time I find the time to write
Never telling who I am, only telling who I am not.

Squawking, sulking in my ear
Drives the pen, the words to veer,
Drives the mind to that of Lears,
Into the sullenness of my volition.
Imposter, Imposter - not a syndrome but a title;

The title of my biography, the world’s class joke
The worlds least known, the worlds last hope.

I have a Saviour but I am my own,
Rather, I insist to be my own.

Hypnotized by the shadow, or not a shadow but a void,
A black void, not empty but falling,
Falling deep and a miss, falling, falling to my abyss -

Imposter Void Imposter, write your sweet nothingness,
I pity myself but I go on, Imposter Void Imposter -
Sympathetic, the abyss lends it’s kiss.
Imposter syndrome hitting hard
Take my heart
Cardium carpal
Impossible to hold in both hands
In every glorious piece
Valve, ventricle, artery
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Not pink, not red but grey,
Grey matter, but no matter

Take care not to lack a hole by
Ebon ivory of your skeletal hands,
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Only bone grasping endocrine glands
Blood eagled atrium across your palms
Venae cavae hollowed hands.
You were mine, Wildflower.
Sprouting roots in the most unlikely of places,
Yellow and green peaking through cracks
Of copper-chipped bricks,

Like ivy you spread and clung to my hand,
Your leaves draped around my fingers,
We grew together.
Intertwined, inseparable, iridescent
Reflecting each other.

Until, your grip loosened
Once effervescent,
Your colours faded
Now waned, wilted and worn.

I tried to love you back to life —
Though I don’t know you anymore.
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