Foreign

For all that isn’t there
In a cavern borne of error
Places overflowing
And yet still we usher more in

With broken, distant stares
Mired down with ardent cares
Stained from fruitless sewing
Pitted plains where faults can bore in

For all the gambits dared
Fingers thrust and devil-snared
Backs and boons are bowing
Hearts are pockets lacking florins

With moments of despair
Wishing for what’s never there
In a stream of knowing
Ever lost and feeling foreign

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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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