Nerve Endings

Ancestral voltage charges and repolarizes, thus there is me in all my petrichor polarity - sane and sorted, HA, or psychosomatic and pyrrhic?

Anchored by poison leaves, like latticework decorating my body and simulacra soul, I'm just like they were. Lives lived in l-i-m-i-n-a-l-i-t-y, phasing patchworks of ill kin likened to the next.

Atrophied and stratified. Root causes supplant rationality; ?logic? casts no seed among this familial tree.

Anathema is the last branch I swing from, for there will be no lineage beneath my dysphoric brush. Obdured moods and minds pepper this salt-shaken ground.

Abhorrent beginnings need not end in resultant burdens of regret. Lifetimes spring forth opportune paradigms, and the challenge is snapping birch to claim.

And I will.

Acerbic limbs in tow, acrimonious gait ready for the keeper, I'll sway to the balmacaan beat of my own fruitful drum. Time is essence, yet an equinox beckons.

Anaclastic hands are here to shape a future (not foretold, this is my story) of phosphonic possibilities.

Aphotic air always clears. The muck and murk of hereditary soil surely hardens, calcifies, and divots to pluvial ash. Beseeching miracle mistrals, but every breath hurts now.

Alas, change is chaptered, and I'm the epilogue of ecdysis.

Anthropogenic sap bleeds bane from my arbor - fuck it - I'm branch-ward rising with spite in spite of felled geneses, tUrNiNg AnD tWiStiNg over one new metamorphic leaf.

(c) Edward Swafford 2025

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