corner1

I think I think I lost me at the walk

along the real concrete street with the shoelace knot.

Real memory. Real skin. Obsessively washed.

The corners in every room and numbers to count them with.

Sometimes asking myself why am I in such dire straits?

Then why are we all? Let me point.

So many corners. So easy until you live in them.

We weave and weave and yet when tangled yell at others for the web.

Who will sever these horrid strands.

Too real and unspeakable to tangibly blame.

The inner lets the spinneret beget the dream then act bereft.

And when is this reel too late to burn the heavy fear adults bring?

Bacteria 2 quasar-gazers.

Besides a blank stare I have nothing profound prepared.

So many moons have circled and my monkey limbs still effortlessly hang.

I shrug for what? The atrocities persist.

When shall we forget the corpses piled in the ditch?

Glory glory to us and our gravestones buried.

Glory glory to us to block out the dead eyes wished not to wake.

Glory glory to us to march on the tilled dirt until dried veins beat not to a hollow. GREGORY MARK SONDROL © 8/18/2019