Time Catches Its Reflection

It came into me,
Like a cannibal,
And left me,
In a coma,
As I fell,
In circles,
Prodded by ticks,
And tocked by every prick,
Laying each sick second,
Out across epochs,
Drawn raw,
And spread red,
Time even hates itself,
Hates itself to death.

I Poet or Whore

You have always been part of this,
Immaculately lush to military measure,
And wrapped in opiates,
I arrive medicated,
Tapped me to blankness,
A vacuum of you,
Watching me,
Until I am dry again,
Defining my sanity,
Lay waste my armor,
You stab and shoot me,
I stand rabid,
Aching down to subtle body,
Tasting time,
And forced to breathe,
Just moments,
To unfold into the possible,
Proof of the little I offer this world,
Straining human evolution,
And closing the windows of time,
My new poems,
To my own throat,
A new weapon,
Your arsenal,
Bloated closets,
Of my maps and pages.

[Repurposed poetry/ a collaboration with Mr. Jimpers]