mercenary soul

you believe fodder
and garbage
and deadpan.

you eat life upon
exit
as an actor
cloy and off
of stage.

you spit the bones
and shards
of tomorrow's scenes,
on venal thoughts
as a mallet
to the gong.

you drink sorrows
past those lips
like a player,
as a creature
nearest to
it's haunt.

you cast doubt
and dirt
of yesterday's disdain
over walls of conviction
as a cage born
child.

Oh, my mercenary soul!

i believe it still;
Redemption.

threadbare

i
wear
threads
of
patterned
ideation
and
childish
preposition;
warm
hand
stitches
handed
down
worn