Shine Ballard Owns Phobos, Reveals the Misanthrope, and Gives the Mien to the Strangerface

Whom

Phobos was not beckoned, though He is mine

We struggle, unwilling to relinquish—

Dismay, oft below, remains at my side

I feign control, though I could be His

We struggle, unwilling to relinquish—

Tug of war for the soul, spirit, and mind.

I feign control, though I could be His

When one owns the day, the other will sigh

Tug of war for the soul, spirit, and mind

The vibrating always persists

When one owns the day, the other will sigh

I cannot discern : to whom, whom is?

The vibrating always persists

Dismay, oft below, remains at my side

I cannot discern : to whom, whom is?

Phobos was not beckoned, though—

He is mine.

trussed

           a soured soul : illtempered pessimist

          malignantly bound by a putrid xanthous lanyard—

          the indissoluble rope of loathing.

dissociate

when i face my confront in the mirror,

i sight the see of a stranger—

          indeed,

a strangerface

          like when a word spoke so often,

               such as awkward,

         it begins to fail its sense

         as if both subconscious

               and intuition

               have somehow slighted

i might, now, mean something i cannot comprehend—

         i may have lost all mien

Bio:

Shine Ballard, the dégagédabbler, currently creates & resides on this plane(t).

@xShine14