6

Place all your troubles
on the altar called vulnerable.
Sacrifice your soul
to the god called prose (or poetry)

Shrink into the psychology
of why happiness pursues
you in a merry-go-round, with
not enough merry to go around

Sink into your art,
and let your eye bags
tell a story your words cannot.
Let insomnia be, breathe.

Run out of depths ofย which to be deep,
dream of sleep and lose
the habit of counting sheep
for the sun stays bright,

And clouds cry on the kind and the vile โ€“
Trouble falls on all that breathes,
and life regards nothing but death.
Life accepts death.

Place all your troubles
on a plateau called rhetoric,
and let vocabulary and syntax
hail the god called prose (or poetry)

Tomi.O

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6 thoughts on “6

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