Unsaved fingers <br />Are remembered in tiny streaks <br />In bad patches <br />Gleam on through where no layer presses itself upon <br />Words have been flowing from my tips to the keys <br />And entered the void - Oblivion cast its gargoyles <br />On my Wounds- To speak damnation would be heresy <br />But i chrurn up spite against damnation and toss it at <br />Gargoyles whatever shade or path they came from <br />They own many eyes, slimy toes, harrwing seeds they <br />Spray on human face. Heads they own not but rent <br />Computer chips for spouts- Thus they spare me a life <br />Of fame and ignominy to ignominy <br />I am not a new Don Quijote- am not boozed up on <br />Romantic fantasies- face that odious wretch which <br />wenches with my dignity and ignoble soul<br /><br />Michael Witkowski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/unsaved-3/
