Dramatic door-slams are a

demand for deference.

Still, don’t let dampened desires

direct your daily duration,

your delicate drumbeat.



Dance to deliverance,

dapple in distances, the

decampment of your disposition,

discern dispassion,

and die,

Divine Deserter.


6 thoughts on “Dive

  1. Pingback: Poetry: Searching for Dead Gods on Google – a Found Poem | The Arkside of Thought | Poetry, Philosophy, Politics & Life

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