deepundergroundpoetry.com

Reading, Transylvania

Perhaps the thorns weren�t immersed first,
but, they were certainly felt the most.

A human system of mechanisms.

Dials and meters having statistical data,
and, measurements of levels.

An eye hovers above it all,
checking in

in

Moments.

What have I become?

The illusion of time drifts & weaves
under & over.

Anomalies glare,
lighthouse beacons facing a sea of strange

Primordia, across the surface.

The deformities of perfection,
upon the face, of a sometimes abomination.

How does society see
me?

Just let me wear black clothes
and black silence

because

I have broken the meter

with

a

lack

of

care