Some Version Of My Escape
The eyes have earlier versions to go by.
Satisfaction is repetition run amok.
Trust comes off the bench as a substitute.
Oblivion is a finger in a mother’s baked goods.
Failure is a nightingale posing as a future.
Trees have taken grammar to heart.
I’m unaffected by the chatter of conclusions.
Accuracy is the dagger without the cherry on top.
Can a philosopher only be blamed for tomorrow?
Can a poet only be blamed for the mousetrap of today?
Sunny days are the most illegitimate of them all.
Education has attempted to keep all the pretty girls beyond me.
All I could do after recess was tumble down the stairs with some
juicy contradictions in my pocket and a sixth-grade smile plotting my escape.