Tension here, on knees and haunches;
an arched vertex
bending backwards,
until the tendons beg to not to feel
the ambition and thrill
that radiates
from the base of my spine
to a vocal spline,
until it climbs and shatters
the mast and anchor
of my skewed and desperately
stranded mind.
YOU ARE READING
Bedtime Prophecies
PoetryPoetic perceptions from a dissociative identity poet. Clearing the wardrobe to find a missing ring; found you instead in my discard pile.
