Categories: Blogging, Creative Writing, Culture, Flash Fiction, Musings, Nonfiction, Poetry, Writing
I almost had a name,
That gave birth to a fortune
A talent sculpting ambition into Nobel craft,
Cultivating a legend toasted in our myths
Surely stolen, molten multiplying earnest questions
Into contours carved along the pockmarked hills
Leveled at suspense a shiver tucked opposing close-held duality;
A broadsword stroke, a pulverizing char
Striking at a flimsy turnkey tempo.
Resolution was not more than burden tightened chiffon,
Stifling rotation that in front of each powdered ensemble on the backlit stage
Embellishing under the mechanisms of daily marching
Wrenching in jest at the coward’s parody of routine.
That as my hope in purpose fell through,
I had a reservoir of nightmares kept utterly pristine.
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