/lit/ - Literature

Just wrote this the other day: too bad I can't work in all my indentations but whatevsees.

Shrapnel
these scales across the cliffs
are climbing, ascending truths and
causing rifts, are thoughtless, clotless,
we are bleeding in rhythm,
hark, in rhythm
and returning, grave sickness,
grave loss in our chests.
here are the cavities
-i point to them
where our stomachs churn, where our lies abound
sink ever downward, nauseous
here is where our heads are light
they skitter, the thoughts, fragments of shrapnel
-embedded in our helmets
see, hark, the we the soldier
is reaching frantic
like apes in the gravel, in pulling them out
and writhing, contorting, drowning in effort
of removal, projectiles
-these are the graves, the moments of losses
-these are our hopelessnesses, open sores of
lost wars of
losses yet.

these broths in the afterlife,
i found them on the shoreline
foaming like severance
and breathing like children
see the calls' echoes, child,
i see them on the stockades
and hark, the angel lows,
is calling to us singing to us
-hallelujah, last being, lo savior, lo chorus
-here are your wounds, they
travel in circles
(but not the same circles as we)
return to you,
in the amber of dead days, where
the steam is rising from losing carelessly
-the steam rises from the gut of the losing horse

you return too,
and lowering, lows, to the metal in our bones
Here is your progress!
and here is your shrapnel,
your carry-out
let's pull it from your head wounds, your black and viscous wounds
let us help another grow in its place-
let us.