Poems and Prose #119 - Armature

The mirror before me
reflects back a deep abyss,
crafted by a fractal spiral
that is and is and is again,
so distant from the starting point
that distortion is amiss.

I grit my teeth and squint,
pounding the glass sheet
  with my fist,
while my shaky lip curls up
into a hardly-practiced grin,
a brief burst of laughter
a rare instance, briefly,
  of something that exists
  only as a precursor to the
    barest, slightest glimpse
    into a cluster of
    long-distorted blips
    that, in some eons-ago,
    contorted myth,
    was a far-off reflection
    of dim, dim glints
    of something
      once heralded
        by sentience
          as some
            concocted
              notion known
                as bliss.

Poems and Prose #118 - Sanctum

Nestled snugly
at the core
of the mountain of things
that I deplore
is a sweaty palm
that's hardly sore,
unfurled adroitly
to implore
some cloud-masked
puppeteer for more, more, more,
while eagerly slamming shut
every last door
that stands up ahead
and came before,
barely attached
to a mouth puking roars,
as, overhead, a rocky expanse
of heavy ore soars,
this hollow center
haphazardly bored.

Poems and Prose #117 - Frictionless

Free will compels me
to wiggle this pen,
just as it urges my heart
to beat once again,
and in the same manner
that I chose all my friends
when we were volitional
five- and six-year-old kids.

I hereby decide
to breathe more air in,
and I choose, too, to gawk
as floating dust specks spin,
my lips curled up
into a sad buffoon's grin,
as I consider the future,
filled with well-planned, well-earned wins.