12 by Stephen A. Dantes


For in times like these words mean little
And little does not allow for air
Sound of chest bursting ribcage to clutch at possibility
Of nothing
A probability
Feelings taut like twisted metal mangled
Oblivious to free spirits of birds not caged
Of dreams not slept on
And lives not dreamt
Words mean little
And little does not allow you to inhale
Or exhale
Need drives you to become you
Unmask the hidden
Deep within bowels of pretence
Six feet of betrayed time
Of wanting
A resolve to resolve what needs no resolution
But redemption

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