Photo by Chelms Varthoumlien on Unsplash

Life is mute — its tongue
cut out by the hands of All.

Mind chatters incessantly — bound
as tight as the curse of Time.

Her fingers caress three skulls -
cigarette burns surround her
palms… I feel the same on
my lips, tongue: Death seeps,

drips into the deep water
rising above six feet:
jackets are required, suits
so we don’t appear naked.

I crawled back into
the tomb out of which
I first issued: green
and new, alive in my…

mind chatters incessantly — wound
as tight as the clock of Time.

Life is mute — its lungs
breathing breath for All.

By Michael Anthony Adams, Jr.
From his poetry collection, Recipe for a Future Theogony.

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Photo by Chris Ensminger on Unsplash

The sweet scents swell
a fever in my brain,
a maelstrom for pain,
a shower of cleansing
water to water the seeds
of passion swelling,
but still buried,
inside of me.

In my dream, a lion’s mane
adorned the shaggy neck
of a wicked wolf who snarled,
who snapped at my heels
as I walked down the street
feeling the beat
pulsing life
through my organs.

I want to wrap my arms
around this whole city,
hold this place as close
to my heart as I can,
feel it beat the pulse
of ten million
people doing
people things.

By Michael Anthony Adams, Jr.
From his poetry collection, The Tree Outside My Window.

Check out Ursprung Collective’s rendition of this poem here.

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