Where is the voice coming from?
I hear a slight wrath in the wind
calling for me to embrace them,
to warm the chill down
the spine of embedded systems,
built upon rigidity, liberation, and deities
hovering over, omnipresently
as i fight against choking promises
in the fantasies of humanity.
Always, I am battling my urge to suppress,
to forget jewels of the weird tale,
but I must wield its power to understand myself.
How must I remember where I come from?
How must I remember how to be?
I must trip my pen back to myself and
remember my atmosphere, maybe then I’ll cope.
May I please take a bite?
I must, I must try.
I pinch myself, still, for asking,
but the rotten center, bitter as iron steel,
reminded me of a bright road uncharted.
Full of images, little people, and things.