Rope, the given truth
Promise, but a limb
Holding to the noose
Dead, we finally swim

Torches given light
Faces always grim
Screams of such delight
The fate from they and them

Tension grips and strains
Chances growing slim
Accolades profane
Life slips on the rim

Gasps and spasms clutch
By moon, the branch they trim
My failures as your crutch
My function growing dim


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 Dim

  1. ELLE says:

    Love “dead, we finally swim”. Beautiful

    Liked by 2 people

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