Proof of Poison

Where the hell do you think you’re going?

Safety

is but imagery

toyed with in

photographic poetry:

An unreality that persists in dreams of innocence.

Scars and blood buckets must be a worthy cost

for a cause proposed in flowering tones.

Frame it on the wall where it hangs to embrace dust.


Comfort

becomes fleeting

in passing graces

presented in flashes

that all but dissipate when the razors beckon

and the abyss comes to collect its toll

for betting on will too long to overcome its adversary

when will has been diminished to a flicker of itself.


Where in this plan do you find yourself stood?

Readjust if you must yet find the compass never shakes,

and a spot on a map is a spot on a map;

Another dot in a life where havens are running.

Watch as they careen over the edge,

and I wish I followed suit.


Where the hell is this intended to end?

Answers

are temporary

or shortsighted

but colored vibrant

if placed into imaginative phrasing of triumph,

depicting the demise as a definite defeat

where the loss is both a victory to claim

and the lasting impression to place into print.

A number is all that encapsulates the story.

( ❤ Mitch)

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