I feel therefore I am
Black, tail feathers and pitchfork horns
Sequinned wings too cosmetic for flight.
The masochists paddle flogs flesh torn.
Aromatic candles flicker to sputtering light
Dancing in paradox ‘pon pallor faces evoking night.
The oak, acorn born is a burning effigy
Milked to cindered ash that chokes the breeze
And masks the penitent man hanging from the blood tree
Shrouded now in apathy. A parlour trick tease
Warring with distilled, golden bibes to please
And patch, a temporary cure. While fallen fools in fortune find
Freedom in shackles and pleasure in pain.
Feeling, the goal of modern paralysis of the mind
While less sentient organs spurt and writhe for physical gain
But in oversized coffins we sleep alone and desire’s
Surging yokes, crippling, remain.