I woke up on the edge of the world where the craft of war was beating and bleeding the Land’s heart dry. I stood to defy. I stood to fly.

But where there should have been wings, there was nothing but the sin of degradation—ropy scars, tattered remains of another existence.

I stood in resistance, my persistence stood in the smothering smoke of the hallucinogenic drug built to sustain a wicked lie, an untruth, a way to adversify.

I rose alive, eaten away by Dali’s clocks and the meaty claws of raptor crustacean eternities. I rose to cry, to spew words and language, punctuated syllables pinched in grey colored robes.

A crown unties itself from its own mysteries. A widening ravine drips with venomous and writhing serpents of forbearance.

But I rose transparent, alone in a cocoon of silent lucid dreams—Pluto’s own coming an intoxicated state.

I rose up from hate, that rare cold orb spinning madly in the spaces beyond the great columns of nebulous star tides and Iapetus’s demise.

I am rust.


Published by

lauryn jean

Poet, Writer, Artist

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s