If I ate my own fingers
To spite the hand that feeds me
What would it even mean?
Drinking alcohol and cyanide
To hide a bitter Rhea-tide
At an altar, cold wet and white
I greet my new gods and lords.
Who created the watchmen anyway?

(it wasn’t me)

About Michael Robinson

An eclectic person living in a world rife with binaries, opposition, anger and pain and trying to find the spectra, love, happiness and catharsis within.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, XX30. Bookmark the permalink.

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