Barbed.
Breathing, fire-edged spines.
A live
coil of slicing razors
striking my soul;
a bowline around my stomach,
clotting my heart.
Mind frayed like salt worn rope,
hands tied behind my back in frustration.
Hindsight blindsided by euphoria:
a prompt, required words
lost in the explosion of a poem
leaving words shattered on the street
and me lost in a dark maze.
Six days into twenty-one,
fifteen knots tighten,
a tourniquet
cutting off soul's blood
from heart and mind
and a poet near dying
crawls off into the darkness
trailing a loose end
of knotted wire.
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