My tongue became an acidic whip
Of orchestrated frustration,

My eyes became centres of blood lust,
Disappointment and spite,

My walk the bullish strut of the angry,
A minotaur crashing through mazes.

A graduate of devotions turned sour,
A stranger in a land of spent words,

Wrestling hope like a farmer with barbed wire,
Coiled spikes puncturing pity,

In the scheme of things I am just a dirt cloud,
A yellow grass scar,
All the tree leaves ignored,

No one heads out to the garden these days,
I am blunt and the World’s become bored.


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