And Now and Then We Cried.
BY MARISSA MOSES
To the ends of the world and the corners of my lips…
To the currents of the faire and the tide of my gut…
To the fortune of the victor and the stride of the parting…
For the rest of my life with you I sing of truce.
Truce be found within my veins
Truth be present in an afterthought of feigned youth.
I have found the measure of life’s standstill
The current of my brethren surges through the effervescent bullshit of serenity
Searching, scouring for something real
Something unforsaken in its pretense
To pretend is to bullshit, to bullshit is to succeed
To fairly play the game leaves you with nothing but empty knowledge
Fit for an owl atop a perch in the deep trendels of the forest.
I wasn’t even invited.
If I wasn’t invited, how can I go?
If I wasn’t enrolled in the throws of youth how could it bestow the favors I deserve?
The favors of youth grow quietly amongst the eaves.
The way I am writing now is at least somewhat coherent
Through its meaningless gibberish of naught.
I am of naught,
for that, I am real.
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