A Voice

A razor, slicing unto my fragile skin
Wrists, Exsanguinating my joy
Of Occam’s delight and Karmic response to my demonopolisation

Under a Villmark dank fetid sky
My stationary sight, crippled by the taste of illusion
My utopia banished as quick as the leaf falling in Autumn stark
Carpe Diem, because no other will

fra tårnet fjellet tronen, I look, wonder, alone, prone and weak,
en stemme skriker!

Ian V. Seymour ©2010

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