There’s options to be weighed
For the executions stayed
We delay
The dismay
As the complication maddens me

There’s frost upon the pane
Where sun will always wane
Like a stain
Bringing rain
A new harbinger of tragedy

There’s meaning to found
Under flesh removed in pounds
Under sounds
Under ground
Where foundations form a cavity

There’s nothing left to say
In a hollow voice to pray
To allay
And relay
How we’ve failed in every strategy


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.
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