Wednesday, April 6, 2016

prose poem 26 | stranger at home in a strange land

Dissonant waves and blank pages, what more could there be than this?

How had I preached for freedom, without experiencing it?

Self-donned fetterlocks & forebearance, forsooth, by my troth, I wore.

I measured my life in soft lies and unliving wages, but no more, no more.

I am broken and bleeding but washed up on friendlier shores.

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