I can’t write hasty words

fast like the speed of light;

throw in a few broken pieces

of glass, cuts on skins, show

the darkest nooks of a soul

that has bludgeoned under

an escalated sense of anguish;

I wish for an obsessive

to cry out through my teeth

break them in a beauty

of the metal that bares its nails

yet sings a symphony

an orchestrated madness

yet a hero with the sword

a stairway of staccato words

yet dissonantly coordinated

old-fashioned, demure, cultured

yet architecturally corrupted

First published at Duane's PoeTree

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