View of Being Locked In

Greg Prince
3 min readFeb 19, 2019

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Seeing from utter lowliness to hope again

Sitting in my own contempt,
singing what it is he’s spent,
laughing through smiles without grace:
movement flowing false and bent.

Cheshire cats in trees circling the tiers
taking only a nickel to be rowed across the river.
Sly, practiced, and stale.
Thick muscles of paper mache to deliver;
bring the goods, place them at my feet.

Mountainous digressions underneath all expression,
transient wishes drum away expectations.
This day in every plight, solid, stagnant, the tide.

Borne anew moment rises and is suspect
wasting the dawn bores coming eve.
Bring alms for the risen clay-is your reprieve.
Inside burns glowing lights, hungry embers;
original fires continue to seek and not deceive.

Taste of malignant children sour a heart.
Blessing from whom reach through fingers alarmed.
Kisses and hugs-ransom of kings gone astray.
Seedlings for hope and desire must be farmed.

Huts of indignation spring, no reason, yet abound.
Husks proliferate, grain going downward.

Ink for feathers turned to gold with a stir in the pot.
Nights, lustful nights, bright nights without sound.
She grins and with a jerk, pain meets pleasure.
Green, blue, red, and purple reign the sky our cradle.
Within folds, wrinkles of greed beyond lies treasure.
The darkened vines, brush with thorns stick so able.

Photo by Lance Asper on Unsplash

Dreaming tides wash away scornful memories.

Flashes of vestige strikes sing the thought,
together in her arms, we fly amidst desired achievement,
only…

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Greg Prince

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.