on the murky, wooden bench
of my life consumed of penalty.
Patterns of moldy bread and butter
spread before me in flatlines on
the poorest, ochre-colored floorboards.
Melody turned dirge and driftwood
pierce the cottage of my slumber,
waking me with a gentle nod and dagger.
Judge me not, for there is no crime
and no reason for commutation
here in the pastime of envy and ego.
Frame me like a strangled Montague
so that language and reason meander
but never collide on time.
Leave me here, not knowing or caring
where I am or what where means or
why solemn moments stream and
why angry birds scream.
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