The Shroud

My dear friend do

speak as if I’m a child.

For truth evades me;

and is measured miles.

I am dead to truth.

Mystified I perplexed

my family and still

I find I’m still wrecked.

Was I tame before

the shroud fell away?

From my face lace

gently singed it stays.

Beneath is horror

unwanted, revealed.

Under imagination

song is so congealed.

Shall the ebb be me

that senses project so

damn near I appear

to me something know.

What has hidden

me so well as it burns,

makes me a slave.

My ash set in an urn.

Echoing deeply to

make way to surface

clashes does it my will

bring to life a purpose.

I’ll not code reality,

I ask you be my judge.

I need the honesty,

for mine is not enough.

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