A flow poem about my unique life and how I see the strange world around me. |
-A Box of Dead Things- by Keaton Foster There Unclear Under Down below A place A reality I won’t go I refuse Such a noose I wanna live As I slowly die Wondering as to why How evil, the sky Comforting Is the ground Laying all around In between Residence Capitulation Via damnation I was born That is really it Nothing more Something so less I regret Just about everything But I’d still do it Again and again A derelict heathen Without question God points As always As I should I stand to the right Others closer do fall Such a show is endless A parade of death With deceased clowns Riding unfunny cars Sometimes they crash Oh’ the hilarity Oh’ the duality I am just a bystander A meanderer Always standing out of view That is of course My only one truth I am incapable Undeniable And most of all Unreliable I fight to survive As pieces of me expire In my hand Is what I admire The cause of my affect The reason for me being In my hand Is a box of dead things Reminders of the past Dictators of the future One of course Without And devoid of me When my body collapses Inward upon itself They will place me No doubt facing down Into the meaningless ground They will bury me Devoid of a name Absent of a case As it should be No one will know That I am there This box in my hand Will no longer be mine It will be removed Placed far out of reach Never again will anyone Most of all me Come to see what’s inside… A Box of Dead Things Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2013 |