I wonder if I could do without claiming
to have known the things I know, only
through mere contemplation and great
perspicacity, and I wonder if building up
pencil walls has helped the sharpened 
bullets of dodging my own spears and
arrows for they think they’re with me, and
despite all of this, I would want them to
change their course and dislodge every
shred of the wall, crack apart the grey
shield in parts more than three, so I would
finally break and let myself known, that all
I am is nothing of what they speak, and
I am not on their side or their enemy’s
because I am the middle ground of the
ambiguous, multitudinous scars on the
gravel from the battles they have fought
and though I speak of bravery and valour
of companions lost, I also speak of the
compelling need be bruised before you
can be called catastrophically complete.  


7 thoughts on “Ambiguous

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