Sting

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


Sting

Where,
you're asking me
where will I go.
You know.
High.
Low.
Under the water.
Where traces of immobilized brain patterns
will not reach me.

Freedom.
It's not a phrase, I'm telling you.
I know.
I saw it. I felt it.
Now I'm dying.
But I know.

It once existed.
In the traces of torn
warm nights.
In the jerk of
dear afternoons
full of
heedful mist.
Without sentimentality
or pathetic feeling.
The cold sun in
the reflection of
a friendly impasse.
Traces of wild pigs.
and winter sky.

Tell me it's not.
But only my living flesh
screams and howls
that it is.
That the East is collective darkness
and the West neat solitary confinement.
So don't talk to me about unlimited possibilities.
A firing squad or hanging
is the choice
for those with the thinned taste
with regard to suffering.

And inside me.
That what a scorpion
inside a circle of fire
feels
before
it plunges its sting
inside
itself.
Self-destruction like unacceptance.
That's it.

Look, it's here.
Look, it's there.

 


Submitted: December 27, 2020

© Copyright 2021 markoc. All rights reserved.

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