Sawyer Fell

In my catacombs of tragedies and comedies alike,
my preference is the nook in the section from when I was innocent.
As I’ve aged and matured the number of books has gradually

I wonder if that’s how Picasso really saw himself.
Deconstructed shapes and primary colors,
All meticulously placed in their seemingly correct
Spaces on that subliminal canvas. 
I wonder if when he looked in the mirror, 

When I awake for the second time
the window tremors at the slightest 
touch of the wind. I notice it never falters
despite moving along each season.

It hoists piles of leaves in suburban yards

I. 
I haphazardly roam this “wonderland” of sorts,
yet there is nothing magical about these bleak 
expansive hills that submerse my every 
racing thought- releasing the whisper of memories

after it was all done
and the world had settled 
on the final whisper of hope;
the tree sighed with relief.
it has spent rings of centuries
feeding generations of
unthankful fools that caused

I wonder how you live
Through a vague vision of self-dosing 
Copious amounts of forty percenter
Guiding you into a limitless hole of destruction; 
Leading you out of your kins life one wobbled step at a time.