Fictions of an oprhan

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Phoenix Poetry

Submitted: February 01, 2017

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Submitted: February 01, 2017

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I will attempt to break the lie,
The knotted ends of a hearts noose 
Tight with mathematics of vines and veins;
To die, to die truly
And regain a will to write
Ah, it’s fiction, grand fiction
As is this life!
Ah, where to write in this sleeping life?
Shrivelled worms wrapped in my pulsing hands
Dig, blinded by heat
A beautiful day, a weeping day indeed
For all bloods rain, rose-tinted foam, from seething apertures 
Many swelled from mistakes between ink and blood,
The lie made by truth in front of eyes,
And my brain explodes into mushes of fruit and soil
Ah, it’s fiction, just fiction
As is this solemn black,
As is this shrouded breath,
As is this death.
But the clogged writer;
No-eyed fiend!
A dozing angel!
Cracked knees serve no right
To ask where you’re idle in night
But why, why do you write?
Are these coughed infections light?
Or fiction, living fiction
Unto unknown sight?
I serve darkness in eyes,
Patches in silk and cloth,
I wear nakedness in a mask
And bleed from kissing walls
Of heavens clouds? Or ruptured, fiery blisters?
Necessary history encrypted in worthy scars-
There is none.
Tell me, what leads me?
Fiction, true fiction?
Why is the light turned off!
I can’t sleep, the bed is splintered oak!
…I am alone again in silences of unfamiliar sound;
Ah, I expect no answer…
For children believe in fiction. 

 


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