My throat reads

My throat reads

Like parchment.

With all the words

Stuck to the sides,

Uselessly plastered

Internalised graffiti,

Shouted in silence.

Barely intelligible,

Stuck in the abyss

Ugly phrases and

Grumbled mumbles

Huddle together,

Married in name only,

To a couple

Of beautiful sounds

Never before formed or heard,

But hoping for a way out,

With little sign

Of an exit

And held in a bubble

Waiting to burst.

A coruscating

Blindingly obvious insight,

Slowly corrupting

In a reflexive infusion

Of bile,

Too acerbic to stomach,

Fermenting,

In deep vats of shadow.

An illiterate poison,

Tainting the purity of voice.

Filling it with grit,

The filth of the pit,

The stale discord

Of undigested rhyme.

Slicing through

The slime of repetition

And the unpalatable

Distillation

Of whole truths,

Breaking down

To their constituent parts.

Consigned to a pig pen

Of cod philosophy,

Brutal imagery,

The black art

Of poetic rhetoric,

And an elegiac

Tumble of sympathetic

Choices.

Scattered in a symphony

Of voices,

Using unapologetic metaphor,

As semaphore.