Perhaps,
That is the inherent philosophy of poetry.
Art in infinite retrospection.
Everything changes.
Just as we begin to grasp at strings.
Gnawed through mine,
With my canines.
Dragging them along behind me,
To each,
A spirit tethered.
Hauntings held hostage.
Nay,
Stolen sources of strength.
Art,
Witchcraft,
Similar,
Eh?
Exerting willpower upon reality itself.
Exertions of soul,
Or spirit.
Bloated auras,
Size of planets.
Distortions in their wake.
Perhaps one day,
I’ll finally break reality.
Gorge on enough belief,
To ascend,
Myself.
The Inherent Philosophy Of Poetry.
