Poetry: Parable

Been reading Plath.

Parable

Castor smooth
Impotent thrust,
My dented temples register touch

No longer.
No, longer.
Dream-slow modes,

Semi-suppressed twitches switch
Through manual codes,
Thrown. Sewn.

I have regicide, in mind.
Royal seed finds
No growth in stone.

So every pip throne
Sinks, like forceps,
Into my arable, affable mind.

-Unseen Flirtations

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