Chameleon without colors
I’m twisting upon a rope,
I know not the tree, nor the reason,
I hang high and choke lower than in my throat.
My guts like a wet coil of reeds,
twisting and piling upon my belly.
I know not who I am nor where I be.
I feel a foot, without a knee.
Darn this sock,
Dream this daring death.
I am absent of purpose,
at a loss with chaos.
Whence delivery?
I know not, and the Knot.
I wish Alexander and his sword.
1 comment:
...much like Sullen would say.
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