The Heir

Throwback Thursday! One of the first poems I ever posted on, but it certainly wasn’t the last!

Originally posted: 09/03/14

The Larkspur Horne

Caged comes in many forms
The omen needle into eardrome

The sour scum parasitic
So snaking ‘round guts

Slow churning
Fast burning—a scry o’ rock
Licked new for the poisoned bite
Of Adam’s apple metamorphose rite

Imprisoned songbirds
They are barred
I see, I witness, I inquire loud:

“What purpose does a song have,
If not to pine for the window
Before the wings were lost?”

Thralldom has a taste
Ebony leech muscles drain the strength to
Pull and push and palpitate

Sticksome strings webbing slaving chains amass’d
Here at tied wrists mine insides do quake do ache
Like shivering drawn moving works of blown-glass

So again, this third eye
This swelled orb that leaks

In the bondage of sanct’
Rotting vectors crept foreordain’t
Gleeful to mind, hungry for fate

Calcifying in camaraderie
The Gogh, the Kevorkian
Sylvia stuffed in an oven
Prometheus liver taken warm

Chthonian beings snapping

View original post 139 more words

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