A Keel Made of Scissors
by The Sven-Bo!
Littered before me
is a field of fractured prose,
a sea of ebbing leafs
sprawled across an endless blanket of bleached folios,
roiling
with the fervor of anxious paper cuts,
biding
to sever what remains of our tether.
But it is strong.
It is a keel made of scissors,
with sails constructed of moments we have strung together
that catch the tempests
and carry us across the margins.
Temporary knowledge flows into our equilibrium,
jarring it,
with whitewashed distractions,
before being cast asunder
to leave us to recuperate
and nestle the precious lull
that does not last.
I witness your visage
floating, half hollow,
behind a gossamer veil,
a spider silk sty,
of cursive,
jostled penmanship so crude it adulterates your form,
leaving it blistered with concern.
I try to smear away the foggy protuberance,
the segregating servitude that impels my disquiet,
cleansing it
with rags of rusty tears
that lubricate the gears
of the clockwork beast inside my mind,
bypassing the apparatus that needs it most,
the one you subscribe so delicately to,
the immolation you willingly forgo.
Yet I enthrall the former,
am propelled to keep it working,
though choked by a morass of papers,
fleeting facts,
and lame proficiency,
I contrive to find a sliver of you
imbedded in its mechanisms,
ferociously fed
for fear of failure.
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