Thursday, August 6, 2009


The proclamation screams in billows:
A roar to upend a shaken heart;
the tinge of salt buried in my throat,
forced outward in impatient throes.
I am but the want of escape,
and that is my undoing.

I am the king of Roman sorrow.
I am the bird of wings:
The embodiment of self-reflection,
the wasted space of Hecate's definition
on a new moon's birth.
I have no tide inside of me,
save the one that stirs my feet
and disintegrates my foundation.

A vacuum in continuum,
the armor of Achilles
and every other spaceless myth;
my brain is Ouroboros.

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