Mimic Life

Mimic Life long poem

Photo by ai3310X

The labours of impression
The ascent apparent in its brute
The uproar
which soon I fear
perceives an inglorious seclusion
Most amiable and devoted

My mode of life was in behalf of my hunger
And I rise from its rugged surface fed from the slavery of a mule
the reflection of my mimic has elapsed into termination
A wondrous sound

I am not ill

But the soil was barren
scarcely affording the roaring of my impetuous expectations

Expansion is a traveler’s life
but I expand inward
until I journey through the hills of my fiendish rage
and crouch there
In the solidity of the snow

My pulse grows cold
And my eyes dilate in a strange perversity
I expect
gratitude of the human senses
But it is not looked upon as a crime
Or conscious guilt

My stare now lies expectant
on the patches of snow
whimpering beneath my touch
Refusing to desist from its wholly form
Its cells shudder and I swallow the bodies of their resonance
And wantonly shed their stream upon my dwelling stare
drowning into a reverie of awe
And create but cannot hear

I listen with a permit of departure
With another’s restlessness
With between hours of resembled disposition

I listen in respiration
Where the ashes rise from their forms
Their positions
shift to the right
Remitting not a sound of soul or sensation
and I can hear with the ears of another
in reverence
in artistry
who am I to deny the company
of the stirred victims
whose feet were chilled
by the cold damp substance
of my greed and remotion

And in that image of my former self
I can hear with the ears of another
With the ears of a golden corn
bare and fouled into art

My figure has roused a sort of entanglement within itself
Notions mimicking the wan life of a mirror
But my pulse still beholds the dawn
of its beholder
and the ears are none of fatality or indifference

I can hear with the ears of another
I can hear with the ears of brutalized corn
I can hear with the tediousness of it all yet
I am deaf to all company
I am of edible strings molded together to invent a sinewy allusion
I am a radiant form rising,
ascending among the trees
but not enough to disquiet the audience
I am shifting onto a new sideline
I am vanished in between but blind to the subversion I am I am

A sensible mule cludders amidsts the trees and forms the scene
I ascend higher into the atmosphere
My stare fixed and expectant
My pulse grows cold and my eyes dilate in a strange perversity

And beneath my touch
A murmur of approbation
follows the line of my sight
it spills between the crevices of my fingers
And sheds its light in the intermittent hold
i am i am i am

And the noise broke upon my lifeless matter and the ineffectual instrument that I feel I am

becoming nothing more of

Than the labours of the impressions protracted at bay
Than an uproar of devoted ascent
Than an inglorious sense of seclusion
and distinguishment
to make a wondrous sound

i am not ill

But I am bitterly deplored into magic
and fouled art
Ideal ideal ideal

Anxiety amusement impressions begone!
Take me from your vacant sight
I am becoming nothing more
Then plastic respiration
and a pile of dissociation
And the murderer of a sun, somewhere
I am a rugged form rising among the favorable eye

And you exert yourself
In a sudden instant
Longing to be restored

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