A Soul with no Title…..

Where does the knife drop in the mourning
Light shining like an Eiffel Tower
On my porcelain skin – glowing.
That soft spot
Where I lay thin
in the wreckage
Of the battery
Solitude and the horizon of the missing persons
Lost to a grim foundation of broken bottles and
The year of the cock
Backed-up and forgot where to begin
Caught some place between the fall and the truth
gazing directly through
the sink or swim
Of how so many have no place in the vision
Dividing the sight, the penetration and the barrage of

Simply the way I see- it isn’t the truth at all…just my truth
Of the battle scars and the rendering cinema between the fallacy
Movement and memoirs incongruent through the rubble.

Navigation becomes like a fork to my daily routine
Trying to sip water with a metal plated limb doesn’t really
Seem relative to the way things drown in the room around the
Movement sitting on my porch of sin…(thoroughly collecting data)
Like the crater in my stomach watching the wounded
Molest its way out of battle…
only the strong survive.

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