1
I thrust my head upward
though skewered by
my sharply limping words
and see the prose in my veins
of the promise for clarity
in this wet bag of blood!
When does flesh ever know
purity when decay is it’s friend?
2
That I know when an eye sees
the setting of a sun
another sees it rise!
And what of love and death?
Does the same eye see heaven
while another hell which seems
to be all the same as the sun?
I believe the impossible is true.
3
And the parts of all of me too,
see long beginnings and someThing;
the abstract as if it were insight
by my own admission I am delusional
And time melts the salt from my tongue
Its vague touch asserts a personal nature
but I am not soulDead, it’s not for me
in the cosmic corner Jester cries
:: 11-08-2014 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 