Tuesday, November 17, 2015

prose poem 22 | mental illness and/or a wretched world

Violence begats violence, like inky black waves upon an aching sea.

Pain, like gravity, pulls within. Accretions of terror ever-form black satellites; too many moons, stir the hateful sea.

Surging rise such myriad swells. Crashing against, new wet pain is upward flung.

A new moon birthed, to tug the horrid sea.

Legend claims Serenity, island bright, can be reached.

Many waves await.

There is still the quiet of the deep, but drowning lends little release.

Shadowed sands, impervious below, expectantly teem with ancient bones.

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