Color By Number

I have a mild preference,/ as to the powers that make my days./Other sources, they tend to fade./Fading fast, to the short sighted, and snowbound. On an empty island, I possess an old overcoat/of embroidered flowers, gutted by knives. Stroke after stroke, I come to find,/I’m a mere pawn in the game, in this essence, this domain./I seek to stifle,/ the benefit of ears and eyes,/but with your ears,/ you can seize poems, as they vocalize./For you too are seekers, cripples that rise,/ by reciting/the pitch and holler;/ your ears latch on to a distant echo./These words trail far behind./They bend and shiver by weight, /they color by number,/they want you to meet me in battle,/ with salvos of sound,/cried out in wishes,/one after the another./But they’re not of what is me now;/they’re after the scale of lives marooned.

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