PoemThe alter on which I sit.Poem7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
A wounded franchise.
Pure and disturbed.
Burning fiction eats through a course, while the perfection silently screams.
A broken ox smiles at the moon.
And windows shriek in pain.
The alter on which I sit is draped in beauty.
Perfection seeps through every aching joint.
Who am I not to plunge into abstract; not speak the purest truth, and live abidingly.
The wretched joker I have been is to be applauded, a valuable member of this team.
To act or not, I'll stand and flex, the vein of whales breathing in the dankest depths who jump in light, and whale as it were.
The skyscrapers now are no match for the palac