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WiltSov Apr 2019
the tunic is blown out of proportion
a manifesto of jiltered dialogue–
between expectation and a breath

rolling realms escape lights gesture
a manifestation of curable perfection
in between curious limitation

thumbnail visits,
dirt and desperate grime glow
search the silhouette,
for unclaimed baggage

merge false intellect,
with stakeouts cigarettes
pick a prisoners flesh,
though it were you that is left.
WiltSov Apr 2019
one ponderance,

maybe I should have never come here...
when milestones are thrown into short parties
pushing guests to savour an ideology

maybe it is easier to get in there
****** a hand that rules the dice
til you gush innermost a cruel and malcontent way

maybe if this vessel weren't so worn
I could be someone else for thirty-five years
until each thumb snaps upon wellbeing's road

they are here,
with a lost verse filling the background
drinks are passed around a well of fears

maybe can only become, maybe
a stealth ventriloquist has stolen every name
speech predicament is all in all's vain

maybe,
repetition has rubbed off
another forlorn scar for tomorrow's work.
WiltSov Apr 2019
A menagerie afar
crisp and gleaned from a far, wreck
contently leaning against morose time
a menagerie star

another beacon beckoned still
overshadowed and plenty weary
thoughts leer openly upon
another beacon will

ever the consummate hatered
watered down by feign and passion
now a plethora in an oddly lit space
******* over pleasant swell.

— The End —