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Desperately I seem to rot here,
thrown in by the sinking sky.
Through the bleak of dead departure,
I am born until I die.

Recognition lodged beneath me,
another deeper, casting lines.
Stagnant rider, growing gardens,
and a rose between dead vines.

I don’t understand the fingers,
casting tides on open sea.
What little hope can head the weary,
windows sparse and roaming free.

Consciousness, they load the body.
Movement sour, rarely found.
As our appetites grow weary,
dance our bones, beneath the ground.

Mother dearest, I seek malice…
fallen gods have ruptured names.
Wires seek the weak and weary –
final death is just a game.

Published inMain


  1. I opened it without any expectations.. now my mind’s blown… this is some really incredible writing.. obviously, you know well what to do with words.. masterfully done 🙂

  2. “Stagnant rider, growing gardens,
    and a rose between dead vines.”
    “…final death is just a game.”
    I had been waiting to read another one of your great creations.
    Thanks for sharing, truly enjoyed! 🥂

    • Thank you so much, always appreciate your feedback. 🙂

  3. “I am born until I die”, I think that a lot, but can’t express it as nicely as this. Good write.

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