I cling to depression, thinking it a form of truth.
– Mason Cooley
Confessional
(beyond the thin veil of your eyes
i see your thoughts—you think me wise.)
I have not seen the moon rise
without an indrawn breath
which lasts as long as life
and ends in death.
Beneath my skin the blood is many shades
which always leak out red.
So will it always be
till I am dead.
A multitude of eyes surrounds me,
blinking benign. I stare
at nothingness
and find it hard to care.
(there is no rhythm, there is only rhyme
just as there is no wisdom, only time.)
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