Instincts sparks, hope dies

what do you do when they speak of,

without warning, broken tries / flat out

words, with letters scattered around

bone, none out of bane mask,

you can’t write.

It’s still night,

Nine hounded years passed,

in another cage,

a new found leapfrog, leaps out

to shout & shut down.

But tis’ the only beginning,

Wonderin’ where we’re going,

I watch, looking back at least bothered

flower, ready to explode with sunburn.

Freedom comes with a cost,

Kindness grips your violent shoulders,

I’m not a poet, laureate of scribbles

a mess, a kind of influx to the eyes—

then, the bed shook up violently

in his mess.

An echocardiogram of rapid blow,

“Tell me darling, where it hurts,”

she asks with her fainting blush,

He stares at her through the spikes,

Lost tribes in a lost language,

He could only muttered, few muffles.

I’m not a poet, I’m not a laureate,

I let ‘em to be lost in their tethered

dreams, who knew: what tomorrow brings,

nauseous gurgles left their bed,

before the intermission,

a one last chance,

a mortgage of mirroring lies, reflected over.

— 30th May, 2024.