Knight’s Night Out

You write

your memoir

of shattered mirrors

and misconstrued epiphanies.

for every recollection,

every doubt that

binds your

mountainous limitation,

to the top of the

summit of debt,

retaliations still sings

as it’s proliferation stings,


of affluent

memories persist,

onto life’s projection

where you tip-toe

towards your demise,

a modest dignitary

forever monetized

within life’s monotony,

where life is a lease,

any moment could disease.

Inked into our membranes,

are words transmitted,

through our rife.

We reside inside

our calligraphy,

where you recite.

Your memory is a mic

your future is a turnpike,

but the past remains

a present

– a precedent

only a wish could represent.



The Weight We Carry


We painted black

into backpacks,

revived our

medieval retrievals,

and clasped onto

our adamance

that sunk deep

beneath the bag,

where thorough

thoughts of

fervent promises

transported to

a portal of


When we gathered

our optimistic


we prevailed

like concrete


but our fossilized

memories froze


the clock

that echoed

faint haunts,

as we traced

our uncertainties

that paved

to cemented



we follow,

but never lead.

When we cleansed

the palate

that painted

only faithful


we withstood

our melancholy


as we

evaded our


to combat

the disdain

that punctured

the tapestry

of  a gangrened


We Bloomed

like flowers,

and watered them

until the spring

turned to autumn;

memories that




and when

love walked

on bridges

we began

to break

by the

hook that caught

onto our shirts,

where we descended.

Still we arose;

we were maps

that traced back

into the wilderness

and we eroded

from our sacrilege,

sentences written

of  trials tribulations

and labored distortions.

As they swallowed

their accelerants

and grabbed dismay

and sold it’s Adsense

to the relapse

that plummeted

into yesterday,

we still peak

to re-capture.

and re-hash,

decades of last

years ghosts,

so within

a century

our ancestry


create an abstract


where dissipated


pulled their


like sacrilegious


as they tore off their


It’s never too late

to rekindle the seams,

that took apart

our shovels,

and buried our dreams.


by Chris Ozog


Christopher Ozog is a 23-year-old writer who currently resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He has previously appeared in Burningword Literary Journal, The Commonline, and Crack the Spine and has work forthcoming in the 2015 winter Crack the Spine Anthology.

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