The King of All
The Right Direction
Upon a bed, a white skull lays for me,
As the breeze flows across your smooth skin, You can feel pellets of sweat drip like rain The ground as hard as a volcano’s inn And the soul acting like a rapid train.
Ojas Sharma
And gapes opaque goo; out a withered rose From clicking clocks before the Eden’s Tree Extends along depressed confessions’ woes. On my floor, tearing thorns hook my skin dry. Of red blood like huge, strangling hands of dread. Is fruitless beg in mercy, to live by. Awaits no orders, that skull who is head. But I do dare transgress against the king, For I still care and stare the eyes of void. Or I forget the tales and Hobbit’s ring, Yet I acknowledge I do not avoid. The cage of thorns hurt more escaping death Than taking my forever, final breath.
36
Nick Wehmeyer
In the park, as I run by a calm few
The weather today shall be at a high Place made for all; even me, even you, Fatigue rises as my mouth becomes dry. But rain towers down as it ruins all, My legs shake as if a towering tree Running back in the park, feeling a squall Arrived feeling like a piece of debris. Through all of the motivation it’s true Runs in their purest form do welcome you.
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