I hate this
plaster place.
disaster
disgrace place.
confined to the
corroded
corners of my mind,
I pray to poetry
to placate
the pain,
an elective
embrace
of syllables
to zipper these
acid wounds.
god gives
gifts
through
this conscious;
a pandora's
box opera,
a pantheon
of syllabic
options
to
occupy
my
disquieted
mind
until
I have
an island
of my own.
I'll live
in language
until then.
A castle in
my conscience
of
lyrical
correspondence,
my self
and
my god.
