The Perfect Prototype

It heals, when it feels, because it fulfills;

A space, in a place, of grace;

This restriction, of a conviction, thus much crucifixion;

A reign, of chain, like Cain;


Twas first, and fast, but cursed;

A moment, in a pavement, of torment;

If only time, could sublime, so I could mime;

Now it’s a sin, to be seen, in the scene;


As sure, as pure, was the cure;

A phantom, even Adam, couldn’t fathom;

Like a bread, from a friend

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: