Son of Papyrus

Blank as a fresh snowfall

quietly begging to become exploration

of meaning and fragile hope

torn away from this crooked spine

that keeps me bound to my brethren.

I'll cut you deep and bleeding

yet my destruction remains unseen

your wounds deemed as blighted

malingering better used in a time

when virility isnt measured by shame tolerance.

Contorted into shapes magical

taking to the skies in the briefest

of innocent moments of gaiety

a mocking reminder to the earthbound

whose queries of poetry are never realized

though scribbled stanzas reside

tattooed on their backs forever.

The perpetrator of an inferno of love

edges curling and vanishing into ash

giving vagabonds one more day

to waste their tired lives away

as a member of the forgotten

in the annals of history through which

they trawled when they had a chance

before time made them its serfs.

Author's Notes/Comments: 


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