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Periaktoi Writing Post

Volume 52
Issue 2

Single Visual Art Post

  • Poetry
It was his Eighth Revolution
Brielle Smith & Genna Ringler


It was his Eighth Revolution

It was his eighth revolution

still trudging alone

as if in slow motion,

frame by frame.

He chose a life for himself.

It's seven mile loop.

He was alone

nothing else,

everything was black.

The muck was everywhere;

he couldn't get away


He sounded tired,


Tapping down lightly on the acceleration

clockwise as if in orbit hit by a nerve gas, everything

still and lifeless.


He heard the valves in his heart;

he heard himself moan.

It was everywhere; he couldn't get away

begging for the noise to stop.


Never stopped at once,

his cause of existence.

It's just one of those things

he endured.


It's over he's gone.

He hanged himself.

Speaking of courage

that's what you wanted

"I'm sorry, but he's gone."