Coruscated metal is what my brain feels like
when it’s called to play the strange game,
and its call is a needle fragment
strengthened to revile and to maim.
I have a single thought: that divine campaigns
to deny the pain of the servant class
end up biting back at the complainant
when a mountain is needed to crawl:
I crawl suddenly up from the
rock that you needed to best me;
Are you doing this just to test me?
Are you so clueless as to bless me?
My photography contains the aims
of your organic heart, its eyes and brain.
urbansonnets 