Agar Man

The letters of
my psyche are
out of order.

Call
the coroner-
my
alphabets have
paid their
debts

for all
the horrors
they’ve
inflicted.

Some
went to
the chair,
canvas hood
pulled
over the hair,

others succumbed
to
the kiss of
syringes.

All were
born
broken and
ready to die.

Some
came from
the projects,
many from
a privileged
life.

The world
twisted their
accents to madness,
unpunctual
degenerates whose
lips could
only form
spitfire syllables,

a cylindrical
mess of
taboo words and
crass facial
ticks.

These poor souls call
me Agar Man, their
living
anagram- the only
wordsmith who
translates
their
chaos into peace,
moments before they
leave this
hostile panorama,

having had
the most
violent hand in
shaping
its drama.

I’m all that stands between
their demons and
restful sleep.

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6 thoughts on “Agar Man

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