The Fickle Infinite

The fickle infinite
of an unfinished life, of
possibilty and its
auxiliary
strife,
is all that keeps me
in the game.

Nevermind my finesse,
for a word
smith’s pledge to
his fictions,
for all its gratuitities is just another
god damn addiction. 

And pay my mindless
diction no mind;

it has been tricked into
attrition,
peeling words and nouns
and proverbial hurt
away until my
position is but to
jade
those few still
standing.

In my omniscient
sickness, I’ve got
to stop pandering to
the idea of
recovery.

My hands get
more bloody by
the day,

a fickle infinite of
untold prediction in
profuse palms.

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3 thoughts on “The Fickle Infinite

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