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
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