deleted drafts of poetry

mirrored layers.

mirrored layers.

these four ragged walls in which i'd never thought much of a home

look down on the negative space. here i am left to roam

without reasonable complaint, for after all i have, undoubtedly,

brought upon myself this monotonous figment of reality

although that's only what those like yourself would have me believe.

tangible or not, whatever the case, you'd rather see me fit to rot

in this regulated hellscape; and sir, to remind you, i'd ought

to file a complaint if just one soul could see you've got the case

entirely wrong. from there i might escape both this hellish place

and the state of mind one comes to when held here against his will

for either a mere second or an eternity. how could god think i'd kill

the spawn of his greatest creation, the man you stare at as if unimpressed?

and look at you, sitting there in your armchair with a face fit to attend a funeral

looking across to me wolfishly, as if you'd consider me consumable;

well eat my words, for you've failed to capture your biggest concern

which is who killed my boy, and on that you've more to learn.

the night has only just begun, if you look a little to your right- no, your left,

out of our window that lets in little ambient moonlight, quite the theft.

if you trust the judgement of god, then he shall speak to you

himself! and once you learn that you are wrong, i will only say adieu!

it is in your best interest, sir, to reassess this case; and once

you find the man who did it, i'll have to bear you to a dunce

for only a foolish man would opt for the simple explanation.

what is it, you say to me; i bring forth my own damnation?

again you are made the cretin, as you're subjected to just a frame

of wooden plank and refracted light that make us one and the same.

and though you think i've killed him, as ludicrous a thought

that be, i refuse to stoop to your level of distraught.

i'd loved him then, alive and bright with everything in my heart;

and i love him now, pale and bloody, though you think i'd tear him apart!

an accident, in nature, isn't damning, and for that i have my soul

intact, without a second thought and without falling into your hole.

you say i'd hated him, that i'd plotted this incident because he looked

a lot like his mother; well shame on you, that's a conclusion too easily put!

if i believed that i had done it, that i had killed my only boy

heaven knows we'd both be damned, and my faith would be destroyed!

for there he sits, his body lifeless, staring with eyes glazed over;

the knife in my hand is significant not, and i'll not rest without some closure

on who is responsible for this heinous act, and who will be to blame

certainly not me, despite what you believe, for what my poor son has became!