[Unparticular Interruptions] a poem

Even if this room was
without interruptions,
surfacing myself to
affirm flight is a
reality the Josephine every
woman tends to host in their
hearts have scuttled;


Due to remorse,
a new mind I’d never mind,
complete, minor a universe
stirring every absurd intervention
to any single hollowed matter,
the future lies below,
bitter blackberries danced over
by every upright rattle
loosening their hooks to
winter winds,
tinged discs
dying when night falls
& no longer visible to lie
every hope struggling to
stray upon



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]