Dithered crows feet becks and caws the mild sillow and sact of
Rum reges and sew, I call.
Oil pot slicks back, hurdles its remaining spew.
White iron and brimstone, I see myself in the minds mirror.
A prodigal self through the eyes
of a beggar.
I call, reach, and swim through the torrents, a great task.
I stop, stutter.
So begins the gnaw.
A growing, gnaw thrashing at my nape
It grows
And I shrink.
And the prodigal ideal, my true self.
Sinks into the floor.
Wrapped in chains, unable to move.
I cry out
“This is what I’ve always wanted.”
About the Creator
Trent Odlin
After getting diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease at the age of fifteen, forcing me out of school and uprooting my life, I spent the majority of the next five years in bed. There, I found writing, and my own style of surreal poetry.
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