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]