Genre: Rhyme, Life
My Cathartic Heel
In weary sentence and weathered scripture,
two still listen to what is mine and expressed,
the Theatre, empty, and free to see picture,
but not to hear meaning, none to be impressed.
The stressed marrow made hallow; numbly tranquil
like the once blue blood that boiled.
Gray are the matters of this uncapped, madder sort of a mad hatter–coiled, and toiled with.
To fall on the listeners of what is hers and expressed,
perhaps just to be heard, or understood at best.
But the twilight holds its show, even still as heads lay low,
not to give way to what is cumbersome,
tis the sum of them all under slumber, but one….
Should one listen now, be my image–uncovered…
Be unveiled; make cathartic my wavering heel and my purging spirit,
seige the poor pores of a heart ripped and torn, archers take…
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