Poetry · Writing

forging of new rules

you’ll exist- at the end of my pen

the forearm of my brain

the nail flushed into my hinges-

hinges removed by giants with branches

gripped like pencils and you’ll exist-

past the smoke and mirrors mirroring the smoke

from my lips.

creation of god? maybe. existing in a white zone

of unforgivable walls spitting points of view

like an ice cream truck in a culdesac.

you’ll exist long past the shattering of the clock and sun

and past the falling of the gods

and the creation of the next-

beings to walk along side.

maybe they already are. questioning the questions as from a liars throat

and hold them high like a rope around our neck


you’ll walk right past and a knife with the width of an anvil

set us free.


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