Poetry

The Fall, 21 (265.)

So many hours
upon the blasted heath,
they make my body scream.
My teeth ache, my heart jumps,
everything is moving
in weird wrong ways.
A self-delivered censure
is the only cure,
so in this censer
I pile letters to deter
my unprincipled behavior.
Hopefully, future I
listens to my past self,
who is surely
me now.
These present circumstances
are nothing less than a gift,
one which I’ve opened,
day in and day out,
only to lay it to waste.
I hope to learn
gratitude
so these platitudes
become anything more
than costume.

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