Era for Recovery
       

If a matter of choice then my choir, surely. If voices

then pitchfork. Then just choose, if choosing is just

or barely. Confess: if my breast is a bird at his glass

the room is just a good cage with less window.

So breaking, interring. If bird, bust. So forgetting, allowing,

then burying. That seems-but then, no wake in sight

equates. If a machine of choice then the marvel of it

all about moved on at great speed and no accelerando

to choose or confess: if with it, confessor, then for me

forsake me. And if old god as given then offer or get off.

Choral echoes in a cage imply when lock then release

when and if one is ready. But then believers in no one

make a critical mass. I mean matter. As if trying to can't

collar. It was a master of choice. I could have kneeled.

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Copyright © 2014 Lo Kwa Mei-en All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission