Seven Years Bad Luck
Published in
1 min readApr 8, 2018
Maybe something existential came out of this.
Or maybe in plain sight a fissure of woe
Emerged in the silent cracks of the mind.
Like larvae gnawing on its own shell:
The self, not to be morose upon reflection,
Mollifies on uprooting the previous —
To escape an image we ascribe to ourselves.
For many we suspend; some we deny; a handful we discard
Little we impale; and one still remains in us right now.
The tactic of the mirror is a surplus of anomalies.
Maim the venomous perception to dust,
Before it takes up residence in the mind;
Before the mirror shatters —
Maybe something dreadful will come out of this.
