Best of 1874 Poetry like

A curtain drops

To wake hellbent, the maelstrom funneled head:
Inside “(no)” a curtain drops. But I say,
“I’m okay now.” (The small deceits.) Instead
Of, “See, the grey sky’s fraught? Rain’s on its way?”

Ignored I am by me against my will.
Self prison grows up hate to wind up thought.
“Sleep snug smug shits” and sundry lies until
The road’s laid broad without defense (dark fought).

That day outside the curve of earth to some
Flat place of 1 x 2, no rain, a sun,
A moon, some  grass, a tree, horizons come
(So, naught that makes it real or true, just young),

Does not arrive. I’m glad. No life
That’d be
To hide, to run, to lie. Instead, I kneel. 

The featured image is “Portrait of the Painter Max Oppenheimer” by Egon Schiele painted in 1910. All work by Schiele (1890-1918) is in the public domain.


I write abecedarian sequences

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