Poe Little

Poe Little joined a cult of self-correction,
another undesirable in search
of more than
delinquency.
He made his living
selling leaflets,
one million little reasons to
repent.

“I’ve spent my life without a mother to make me mind my tongue, a father to admire and a brother to love. I’ve wandered and wondered and when God couldn’t remember my name, well I
guess I was
able to say
the same,
and we weren’t a family much longer.

I believed in something that
made me stronger, but was perceived as weak,
and now I merely speak in platitudes.”

Poe Little,
always a minimalist, can’t describe his first
kiss, for all descriptions’re archaic,
outlawed,
abrasive.

No magic in amazement, rendering blank stares.

Boy was a bookworm but we haven’t heard
stories like that
in ages,
and he’s scared
of heroes erased from their aegis,

trying not to
offend
the ravens in his repertoire of
thoughts.

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