I have broken down inside of these poems,

Each one a declaration of war


My heart is made of cartilage

The softer flesh has, in support

Of my deficiencies, hardened


Time does not resolve

Every dilemma

Without interference

I am certain to remain

Between the lines


I have spent too much time

Deciphering to create,

In any case, the void does not

Favor innovation


My muse is full of detours and distinctions

Sometimes I wonder what a topic implies

About the state of my immortal soul

My fictional works being especially gregarious

Lack the armament necessary to safeguard their secrets


I like to feel the words, which given my execution

Lift up from the page like Braille

I don’t need ink to solidify my grievances

They are bourne in my blood, like ruin


11 responses to “War

  1. O! War and the void–neither credit innovation and individuality … I appreciate how this poem wends its way from the heart, inside out and back to the ruins within. (It takes just the opposite to write this way!)

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