precipice paintbrush

there is a precipice of who I am
and the narrative turns like the yellowing
of yellow pages; the archaic science
of me; proverbial and primordial in the wake

what can I say I am beastial, having to act polite
it is in my nature to be typhoon and tycoon
but I butter my obscenities so they can melt in your mouth
as I spoon feed you innocence know that my spoon was
an iron coded telos that knew what it felt
to have a poverty of being even if there was
the necessities to live; yet there was a refrain of self

a piano polished and not played is going to be eaten by insects
and not the kind that grow wings and molt off carnage
these blemishes are the still growing patterns
even if my seeds are blue and black
know that I have the chroma heart of a karma exodus
torching my veins and entering my alphabet
like the Aleph of the soul paintbrushed by
the slowness and sureness of the time spent
walking to this precipice
of who I am.—

Speak yer mind

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