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Deadlock

February 10, 2018

onehundredandseventyfive

Iron blinds the sun.
Rises from dirt like climbing ivy.
Is fed by earth so red it’s black.
Knowledge binds the axe.
It rests in trembling hands.
The blunted edge of the human psyche.
It falls on paper and slackened rope.
Sharpens the impotence of hope.

Papa was a rolling stone.
But I am Sisyphus on the hill.
Weight against the boulder, thrown.
Day by day and pill by pill.
He had it all and nothing to do.
I don’t have shit and now I’ve got you.

What will you make of all this strife?
The creeching of the wicked mob.
This worship of a blameless life.
Existence as if it were a job.
Better the truth that we don’t tell.
Blessed the souls that ne’er rise from the well.

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From → Poetry

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