Facebook @ Mark R. Prime
Love, peace and goodness to you, yours and the (H)eartH...
One- I am trying to breathe. I do not offer myself. Everything flows over, within this; my mouth.
Two, three- The surge reveals a child. A symphony of barbs pierce my rest. What is asked of me will not be of the next.
Four, five- Anyone that can hear me, I will tell you something, anything to make it cease. Earnest plea at death’s gate.
Six, seven- Toss me in safety’s grave, that is now my wish of you; my mind’s slayer, liberty’s perpetual destroyer.
Eight, nine- I’ll gladly give up my use; the substance of my collection. Feet elevated inside iron shoes, angels slithering to my side.