Odds in life

in poem •  last year 

It’s a fix to nix the soothsayers
These conveyors of newness
Are simply out of tune-ness
And must be edited away
From the average anal day
So they don’t make waves
Luring slaves into originality.


Odds are stacked against the wall
Of indifference that palls the will
Still trying to believe in skill
Inside a torrent of grieving
For the death of believing
No longer attending or ascending
The mending heights of inspiration

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