Who, More: A Poem

What am I, more,

Than a pile of dust cursed with human form,

Spectre of a soul lying heavy in the air, beneath a commandment

That I must will to live;

What is this place, more,

Than a garden wrought in ruin from a promise spoken from cursed lips,

Devil’s kiss lies heavy on my serpent-tongue,

I am and eat the dust;

What is life, more,

Than the lies we tell ourselves to take the edge away

From the darkness of the night, relish

In these shadows, for the morning

Brings nothing of more delight.


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