Decomp.

Each day’s sunrise shines;
against history’s version;
of what is my truth.

And what is my truth…?
according to Father Time,
it is a sad one.

From one, come many;
more sad truths to give names to;
bloated by decomp.

Skin – whitened with time;
a centuries-old rag doll;
missing arm and eye…

Carried off downstream;
against a fatal current;
chased by my nightmares.

Vividly Shone.

Practice what SHE preached,

you’ve got some nerve calling me…

lose my number, please.

The arrow has flown,

your colors vividly shone…

take your lies back home.

Truths smeared in cement,

hieroglyphic discontent…

broken testaments.

I’m busy burning,

piles of lies that I’m learning…

not table turning.