I don't mind of anyone
calling me foolish,
the moment
that they'll hear me speak
for my mouth is a coffin
buried a thousand miles away
from my gravestone.
the rays of the sun
facings its death
on the mountain's peak
are the scraps of my hopes
arrayed and discarded
in a paper cone.
Too pallid to live
but too ornate to die;
that when you try to open
and examine my wrist,
you'll find white butterflies
through vast necrosols —
a living corpse
buried inside.
—MLD | 01262021
YOU ARE READING
Artifice
PoetryMy question marks were never caged but they always find ways to conceal their images and trick the pachydermatous spectator with artifice. Maybe, certainty can be Socrates listening to the mixtape in my closet? Maybe uncertainty can be me withou...
