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A Simillacrum Sep 2019
Start to dance,
maybe my bones break.
Start to chant,
maybe my voice dies.

Start. Stop. Start. Stop.

With this wand,
I waive rust.
With this wand,
I let blood.

Start. Stop. Start.

I don't want blood.
I don't want to buff
your sword and
your armor

I only learned
this trade
for the portal spells.

I only want to
A Simillacrum Mar 2019
Chants in droning, layered voices
spin around me as the portal whips and swirls.

Vision leaves for blindness, then
returns again in purple tunnels, bending, twisting.

My mind appeals to enlightened reason
as a pain begins to escalate.

Somehow, I know the feeling coming,
and this one, I do not want to come.

My feathers and my skin, then reject
my body in its whole. I feel it peel away.
A Simillacrum Mar 2019
What a vicious punk --
I'm pretty sure he lies about his age.
What's with the bow and ponytail?
Desert skin curtained by auburn,
socketed with emerald eyes.
Who does he think he's fooling?

What a deplorable. . .
I'm pretty sure his skill with a sword
is comparable to beginners.
Pillow lips protect a silver tongue.
While we work, he's in the taverns,
playing at conversation.

What a queer young man --
Even back on Jalima he ruffled
feathers on the goodly wings.
I wouldn't trust a man who would
speak, over choosing violence.
Who does he think he's fooling?
Meanwhile, in Eastham. . .
A Simillacrum Mar 2019
There's nothing but death ahead.
A right angle to admire in flight.

Falling, free, yet truly contained for the first time.
What's left? An ending far past my feeling's edge.
Beyond all comprehension --

Why would I strive for gains in paper and credit,
when breaking the boundaries means I may well
never know human contact, again?

From the womb, I've squeezed from a trigger pull.
I'm a representation of cyclical self destruction,
until I lose my velocity to life.

Where's my beholden, blue light ignited soul?
A siren throat is bone dry, floating on the ocean,
hopelessly croaking the notes.

Would any human ever ignore their good senses
just to commit to an abomination, who is sin
simply in their existence?

There's nothing but death on the horizon.
A right angle to admire in descent.

— The End —