Libra

Am I the cure or am I the disease:

I rest spineless on a petty pedestal
You claim to have pontifical powers:
Significant of ritualistic satire;

Am I your cure: your saving Grace
And your saving face – but you say
No: CuZ change is pain and pain
Is death …
But pain is life and life is … it
I counter and claim, as truth;

Am I your disease: your pain
Down your back and the
Shaking through your veins – but
You say no: CuZ the pain is not real,
The shakes mere flits of mind:
Like rings on a midsummer lake
Above the circle of life:
A balance to be kept;

I rest spineless on a petty pedestal
You claim have significant powers
Over life and death, cure and
Disease; I find that equilibrium
All too hard to balance,
All too hard to fault,
All too … much
Satire.

Snakes

Venom and spitting / your snakeskin slithers as self-conscious dithering wreaks, unleashes, and vents / nothing. / NoThing will ever convince or convey further engagement of two split tongues intertwined / the storm rages on / the wound of ages still festering / with will gone and without dreams / what will a future of word spitting and venom drinking ever achieve / in the world of men / and snakes.

Part of me knows the truth:
The second floor flooring
Won’t collapse; yet a part of me
Knows the truth: any day now. 

Part of me knows the truth:
The roof won’t dislodge and land
In my immaculate garden; yet
A part of me knows, and panics
Every time the wind blows. 

Part of me knows the truth:
The world will not end 
Before my time is up; yet a part
Of me, the self, disconnected 
From the world of men, knows
The world will end
Before my time. 

Part of me knows the truth:
There is no truth, this is only
Me in a state of pretend 
Paranoia.