Reconstruction

I’m mapping out new lobes

from dirty sunburnt clay,

the only methodology

of teaching myself how to

pillage mythology and lyric

myself a flaming god.

 

There’s no right

kiln for everyone, remember:

no person can remove nerves

without their permission

and reinstate them as Grecian

mazes made from scorching

mud. Pirate ganglion

yank me from the fire.

Frayed glia are left to chill

 

only half-hardened. Shoulders

 

start to slouch out of their sockets.

I accidentally inhale fumes eerily

glossy. Guess I’ll try again later.

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Published by

Jenna

Hello, fellow bundle of nerves and flesh! I'm a simple little being who's half-poet, half-scientist, and all gelatinous chaos. Sort of like an illogical marshmallow. If you'd like to learn more, please seek out the "First Impressions" page. Thank you for the visit, bundle friend.

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