Where is the Fault?


What is this?

Ugliness in the trees.

Unsightly, gait to a walk.

Hailstorms of purposeful distort.

No matter the purpose, I cannot transcend.

No matter the discourse, in and around, the bend.

No matter the purpose, there is no pretense.

 

Aghast, I speak to the spirit inside me.

‘Come along!  Find another!  Let me be!’

There can be no prose…

faultless enough.

No lyric bold enough.

That wanders to the depth that pain can go.

 

No matter the purpose, I cannot transcend.

No matter the discourse, in and around, the bend.

No matter the purpose, there is no pretense.

 

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