Treasure Island

Edwin Cordero


Drop upon Drop


Drop upon drop, fate bangs away
On imminent loss: liquid evaporating.
We only go up, condense our beings,
To unavoidably fall
Through insipid fleeing.

A cycle undeniable, casual
In how reliable our reactions are.
Failure to question all rituals
Tipping healthiness to lard.

Spars for a farce—
Wars through a marsh—
Horses that tarnish
Themselves at the smallest
Of sparks.

Bars for the heart—
Limbs in tar—
Are enough to collect
All beliefs, regret
In a jar.

Submitted: Thursday, May 16, 2013
Edited: Friday, October 18, 2013
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