Better Left Unread

there is a torrent of irony

in the form of language.

it's pouring words

and we can't make out

the splendorous

roads of Poetry

anymore.



let my Soul be a streetlight

betwixt the darkness

of Tongue,

where every stanza

is the by-product

of beauty-seekers' torment:

an expedition

to unfasten the chains

of the written.



we live

for the fruitful bounty

somewhere encased.

persistently carving the peel

of an orange

to expose the raw

underbelly

of juice,

of our

Poetry.



and we'd like to think

it's nearing completion.

but we don't know

how deep this skin

travels

or if at all

there's core

to unravel

this way...



I believe in men

who tell me

some things are better left

unsaid

to re-emerge,

unscathed,

into monstrous muse.





vicious Splendor:

we are no contender

to You...

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