Poetry

Confessional truth
is not my aggressive ego,
it is my fault.
The resolution of my conflicts with time,
the smell of the broken limbs,
my head in hoisted fever,
my eyes searching for a cloud.

The ultimate otherness,
of an idea baffles me.
Charity creates the misery,
you seek a window,
not the sky.
Looking for the gods,
enjoying the sweet depression,
of a pseudo-hurt.

I wanted the sanctity of a tree,
full of fragrant bloom.
To break the spell of hot arguments,
the fire of ideals,
projects self worship.
Town meets casually to select
a hybrid of man,
and a beast.