Death of the Body

Death of the Body

A blank page is a disease, eating away at all our thoughts.

Ink flows from ear to ear filling up the empty slots.

Words spill about the page only leaving blots.

                                                             Clots from the tongue fill and fend what the critics try to bend.

                                                            All we ask is for our head wounds to mend.

 Tending to our brain

forgetting to let the rain

be the subject of sensational detain.

Never should we restrain.

                        Let our thoughts

                                 drip

                          from the end

                             of canes

                           

                                rather,

                                 than

 

                                  slip

 

 

 

                                  off

 

 

                               window

 

 

 

 

                                 panes.

 

The pavement is cold and our bodies are filled with bold lines of escaping thought. Stab wounds etched in images of the moon. As if we were only reaching?  Breaching the stars beyond our window sills and sailing straight towards the ground. Bound by words on a page and gravity. Yet, the inkwell is untouched; not a single word written.

Nativity of the mind  is ironically its own antonym.

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