His memory
was a mortuary
for the time capsuled
thoughts that
recessed – to erase
the condescension
that presided
over the torment,
that buried beneath
the sulfured
insubordination.
Their sardonic
disposition
grinned
as they froze
like winters
remorse,
while their
malevolence
anointed
fiction and
constructed
the masquerade
of fabrics built
within his presence.
Their thoughts
were pistols,
but they
shot their trite
under their
muscles,
where
they pinched
like needles,
and sedated their
fallacies with
laughters
beyond the
steel curtains,
where grinders
decimated
his heart.
When he
pleaded
for help,
they vanished
like spirits,
but when
they called,
he stood
there like a
stubborn weed,
refusing to
be torn from
the graveled soil,
as animosity
vanquished
their sanctioned
apparitions.
In his presence,
he may not
feel the taint,
even when
it surrounds him,
but when they
depart they
grab their
scissors
and cut
through
their honesty
and saw
their truths
as if authenticity
had dissipated,
and resentment
reigned
until he felt the rain
of suspicion
linger like
a lobotomized
incision.
Images
project their
sardonic
smiles
and they
resurface
like debt,
with deception
smeared on
the lies
they closeted.
They departed
after their shifts,
but their
bodies rifled
stronger signals
than the cell phones
they possessed.
Christopher Ozog is a 22 year old poet residing in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He Has previously been published in Burningword Literary Journal and The Commonline. To learn more, visit his twitter at “@expressiveozog.”
