This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

This...
Existence.

This
Melancholy beat of a spasmodic heart
Empties full thrust into
Mires of self-loathing and
Rues the day that
Born and bred were
Raised and wed to
Produce
This.

Empty
Sorrows
In the bowl of the beggar
Where pity and scorn
Mingle with incense and onions
To languish in cob dungeons
That shun the sun
And embrace the cold.

Gather
Time
And force him to live backwards,
His tick-tocking force
In polyrhythmic conflict with the
Treasures he would control
And yet has lost
In the seas
Over the sands and
Under the winds of
Universal storms
And mutated, ugly forms.

This...
Existence.

We cannot understand
This...

This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.