Treasure Island

H.J. Shreeve

(26/5/1987 / Hobart, Tasmania)

So petty, the concerns of man


So petty, the concerns of man 
That I would bore out my ears 
For but a brief silence
Gouge my eyes,
With glowing iron
In defiance
Of your brighter tomorrow.

The fruit has grown bland,
full of pips and rot.
Once warm, sweet milk
Now Curdles in mouth
I no longer find pleasure in taste

So empty, The talk of man,
That I would tear out my tongue,
To be excused from reply,
Savoring my speechless silence
Sever my nose,
And become your scentless apprentice.

Here, I am among no one.
Here, I am a wanderer, dazed, lost

Submitted: Thursday, June 21, 2012
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