like existence. A matter of
over-attentive, unfocused
fear. Torn down into tears,
salted like Carthage, spoiled
for and by war, harder apple
cores, unsought, all brought
by commitments made in
ink. Letter foxes called to hedge
hog, butchers, taking chickens
meant to live free and lay
hard. Another question of
meaning. What is meant by
the dent in the mind that
has been sought by every
motion, any commotion,
parallel to phonic, diction
scorn? Don't answer, it's
another matter of sentencing,
the very thing to devoid. A
void makes a manacle, and
a paragraph the chain. Where
is the escape? Social proofs are
smithed by the source of poison;
have you heard of alcohol? It's
never content to be still. Like
the learned word-murk, the
young and old lurk, for saviors
that carry their tune, one
phrase at a time.
Roman Ryan 