The Stain of Thought On the Body
Thought-bone reaches
For the measuring tape-
scribbling a plan to escape
Low and Behold!
The unchecked corners of morass
Have globbed my throat with glass
So as thought goes to consecrate,
I must wait, passion coiled
Soon, the primate strand articulates-
I'm lost in boiling black water,
Exotic affairs reappear
Spleen is churning
As I beat out towards the street
Quads burning, chest brazen
A deeper level still-
Primeaval insurgency
Inflames all reason and doubt
Then, as breath returns to itself
Thought regains composure
Pondering, planning, scheming
Copyright © Justin Debrosse | Year Posted 2012
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