Abnormal Metamorphosis

A revelation of their clay feet

has shown their heart pumping,

breath gasping,

decaying bodies.

no longer do the scratches on the floor hold


(after all they are only scratches!),

and so I asked the prophetic guest

if the hornet's horde was death's disease,

because even muttering makes me want to

stick my fingers down you're throat.

Such shaky hands by a damned angel or giant insect,

from whose wings milk spills and cannot seem to fit beneath the sofa.


wouldn't it be nice to steal the angel's thoughts?

To chew every last bit of laughter and spit on it’s

splintered spine?

Or to pluck feathers and peel sad eyes from such a fleshy altar?

He has become little more than irrelevant.

My raison d'être,

is not to blind an Orpheus,

or shield an Achilles,

nor to lessen the folly of Icarus,

rather, to stitch my threads

into the textbook of history.

No ulterior motives,



"I think."

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