A visage pinched and worn
From wishes never born
A missive left to mourn
Beneath the shadows of our hesitation

With fingers bent and bruised
And confidence confused
For opulence ensues
The ending cost of staunch determination

A reputation stained
For theories thought profane
Is it boon or bane
The offering of one’s own innovation?

A path with many roads
Distracted as it grows
To where, we’ll never know
While traveling a map of reservation


About A. P. Christopher

I'm a cynic, a nihilist, and a pessimist. I'm a hermit filling the interior walls of my empty cavern with the words and pictures of a mind adrift in disparity. I also like lifting weights.
This entry was posted in Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Reservation

  1. Beautiful play of words.

    Liked by 1 person

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