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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