poetry

the weight of rings

the weight of rings
on his fingers reminds him
(i am alive and the punctuation
is never perfect…) plus you
feel the extra knuckles
carry the burden while you sit
late into the parchment evening
typing at your desk like an
electronic monk

the weight of rings
tells potent opinions to
mark off your silver skull
as ‘the mark of evil’

he displays our dark veneer
with an unbridled ease
the others can’t see how
a gypsified pagan like him could be
happy and content with his
inner dissonance

the weight of rings
is the mark of cartilage
something only years of
matured angst can conjure
together

maybe it’s that time where
he can fold his fluid fingers
over the stout shoulders of the
pentagram and
feel peace
breathe back
the holes in his head

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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