Paranoia or it’s lack

is a finicky prophecy,

A foretelling forever dwelling

In the foyer of majesty.

What choice could it choose of me?

But as a curtain cutting its rod like Stalin,

or else as Caesar in trusting back

Inviting closeness inside to attack.

Categories: Art, Blogging, Culture, Nonfiction, Photography, Poem, Poetry, Politics, WritingTags: , , , , , , , , ,

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