Poetry: Untitled


The cure concocted for every failing hope
is a painted needle meant for a pale white host,
It’s here where the tantalizing games begin,
the drug-addled words found with burbon and gin.

And the reverberating imaginations resound,
giving way to leaps and bounds
of nightmares and myriad delusions,
inspired by stark and naked conclusions.

Ideas of grandeur show forth no meekness
In revealing the immortality of my mind-
it remains juxtaposed to the weakness,
shyly shown in every cough and sigh.

Cut, cut me down, Jehovah,
With piercing words of truth,
Like the tree you planted in Eden,
Like the gods believed by Ruth.

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