Mortal Aspirations – a poem

I tire of this game, the coils of mortal worlds,

Their mores and rules, the limits of bodies

Drawn from likely lots, lain in neat rows

Beside their kin, these groupings of forms

Keeping bound more than we wish to admit.


Tombstones of aspirations lie across long fields

From the withered heaps of wishes left behind

In the storms of our youth, sometimes rediscovered,

Oft forgotten, the fetters and bureaucracy surround

On every side, a storm’s eye sought for, found.



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