After The Feast

Vintage Words


After the feast, I scrape idly

at the scraps; rogue vowels,

dangling participles. Editing

with bleach is best.


Confined to a chair in front

of a computer keyboard, I need

blue sky. I need to see the sun

play outside with neighboring

galaxies. Instead, I end

in the dark where I exist

mostly as dust.


Who will remember so many

words? History will be history

at odds with itself. I have become

a stranger in anonymity's grasp.

Waiting for answers, I miss

the entire point of God.


There is no better way to describe

death and dying. It's death.

And dying. I need no degree in that.

Confusion is a myth.  What I

believe mirrors pasts, whenever

I declare war, I will reflect

the future. I will move and live

in the schematic labelled seems.


Dreaming life totally misses

the point. Wishing it has the same








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