Somewhere between their Saviors
consumption and a new prescription,
I lost it;
the humming demoralizing dread
that had propelled my five feet flesh
and ten inches desire into the abyss,
dark, damp preordained as paradise
by modern Plato.
But motion unabated, my mind
a lazy correspondent, dried ink,
I descended on, blind, ashen eyed.
Where have I gotten to now?
Still I want it, in plus three years,
disowning a forests weight of loose leaves
and opened mouth, cod fish, expectations.
Do they think me an above average failure,
branded raw, red eyed with the blade
of mediocracy? (Do I care?)
To which jury, bloodied innards or cacophonous peers,
shall I break the scale?