Love Is a Body Swaying from a Tree

 

In a state of perpetual

obsession, I remain coolly removed

from the shit around me.  I prefer to record

 

in words—that always fucking fail me—

than be a figure head on the wreckage of the sinking

ship Economy.  That is all I really have is to write

 

it down and hope to find some truth in my own

meaning.  What does it mean to be

what I am?  Maybe I am poised to embrace

 

the shunning and call it mine, besides I want nothing

more to do with the dealings of the ship that takes

everything known to man down with it.  I cross

 

myself with the Trinity just for comfort, and start

doing chin-ups for life’s battle

I must face like a gladiator.

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1 Comment

  1. Cool poem


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