Tom Wood


Struggling to see through this fog

Stimulate my senses, dirty air

Cleanse my hands by burning out

The sin that’s found within


My bones


The infrastructure of my tomb

It holds me in and whispers doom


It’s thick enough I start to choke

Spiritual asthma has me down

Rinse and repeat, my hands are gone

If it offendeth me, cut it off


My home


Four cornerstones that split in two

And yet there were nine halves


Staggering aimlessly, nowhere to go

You thought you’d find me unharmed

You don’t know me, or you don’t know.

No, I don’t think you could understand


My phone’s-


off, I turned it off for this, for you

And you couldn’t even look me in the eyes


You’re conquering my thoughts without trial

Where is my say? Why are you here?

Judas still called Him the proper name

Still yet I’m here on my hands and knees




Bipolar in the sense of my Telestial tithes


And yet I still only find you peculiar

  • Author: Tom Wood (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: June 2nd, 2022 20:10
  • Category: Reflection
  • Views:


  • crypticbard

    The See at various times no longer sees, its holiness lost to the striving of the centuries. Hope that thought was not misaligned in the reading of this effulgent poem. Thanks for sharing.

  • orchidee

    Yep, this is quite effulgent! *gets out dictionary to check what I'm on about* heehee.

  • L. B. Mek

    striking imagery
    really well written
    thanks for sharing, dear poet

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