viiieen.) A Caricature

The catacombs of our self bidden

catechism. Now they serve as our

cathexes.

 

Perplexed by the subtle perturbations,

words crackling across my lips

making these inklings pour across

 

Beside these ashen lines, diluting

the hearts congealed blood, dilating

each constricted thought.

 

Blindly we wonder passed our insight,

at our past born asunder

these their insides, shall the innards

read as woven, interlocked and entangled.

 

Another cataclysmic tale of amnesiatic

absentia, ostentatious in our preconscious

precociousness.

 

Flinging vase like tablets, into cuneiform

fragments, it just so happens that these

in each portion are hapless.

 

These our chamber doors; upon which none

tap…(n)evermore.

 

 

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