Arkansas

In Arkansas,
and beneath the willow tree,
there exists a channel,
inside of me,

Behind the waves,
and inside my soul,
a rhythm of sorts,
and it is old,

Smoky effervescence,
and quiet chill,
the thought provokes,
a measured thrill,

My shackled brain,
and abstract mind,
alter experiences,
I think you’ll find,

To form brittle restraints,
  and foregone conclusions,
they cause manic states,
and worried delusions,

Of words and weapons,
the weapons are words,
they tell a story,
I thought you heard,

Of tricky sentences,
and abstract rhymes,
the factions fracture,
inside my mind,

Stringent orders,
  form pointless commands,
they direct my actions,
to do more harm,

And for myself,
this is not the end,
and for myself,
I grow used to it again.

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