Blinded by the darkness:
cottony, fibrous mass
of worthlessness asserted
by all and sundry,
superior souls never
gagged and blindfolded,
thrown into an unfamiliar space,
robbed of rights,
Fair hearing?
No hearing.
Convicted without trial,
circumstantial evidence
issued the verdict:
condemned to this
suffocating space, the
encroaching, expanding
absence
conquering the place of self,
long, scabby fingers scratching,
slowly
in a mockery of loving,
the jagged nails bearing
cauterizing heat to hide
the blood, no drop allowed
to spill, trapped
inside fraudulent
appearances, absolutes:
this one’s a saint,
that one a whore.
Why doesn’t this room
have a door?
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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