Gesture

I feel the world conspiring against me,
Though I have no proof of this at all.
I am thus the fool of my eyes.

So then some times I feel my words are lost
Between thoughts, but then others,
I have non-words, suggesting to you I do.

I feel conned by the sodomy of letter,
Triumphed at the practise it elates.
I want to share but feel restrained
By my sharing, in knowing
I can give best in what I refuse to say.

I am a soul in a vast array of colour.
Yet I do not believe truly in souls.
Mine, if it were to exist,
Would be the patronized
Lessoned by the shallow of the grave.

Of course that what underlies all of this
Is a type of sorrow, one that longs for the lost?
And so, I prize open my self onto,
That, which has been taken,
That, which in reality,
May not been truth at all.

Who am I to contest?
I have lost words but not as many as letters.
They fall from my spine like I am lost,
Bent, drafted only once without sense.

I am placid, placated, a rudiment, a fact.
Nothing that I can give, in this way.