As I lurk in
vulnerability's invisibility,
I gradually begin
to cast a silhouetted shadow
in front of me.
This, covering the concealing me,
remains till the remains
of the foretold future
are turned into amplified
asbestos ashes.
I say this as a laughing stock
living the life of liberated lies.
I must find my way back
but the allegoric alley
to every extent is dimmed
by intersecting indecisiveness
--like crossroads criss-crossed
with another criss-crossing crossroads,
scrambled scribbles which are longing
to be completed,
repeated, then depleted.
Right now, I can feel them
straitlaced inside
my collapsing chest--
now they form
hurdling hurricanes,
holding another
hopeless humidity.
All I wish is for them
to be gone before
another battlefiring backdrop
of wining woebegone.
But it all lies in me, within me
I've wasted pulsating paragons
without saving me
from what's inside me.
Now, I have to read
my revolving resolutions
before the revolt inside me
catapults the entire me.
I, in the vileness
of violent valuability,
only want to end all
interrogating inscriptions
which imprison me
from me and everything
or everyone 'round me.