Written by, Miranda Tusinac
-English Major/ Creative Writing Minor at
Youngstown State University
Some never reach their full potential; a literality.
Passing amongst all, deep seeded Redroots.
I see them scream- subdued yet splenic.
Revoking all desire, as I watch the beast passant.
Here and now I irrevocably emendate
this torture and pity as enough.
Great solitude, but is it enough?
I speak of chaos, none hear literality.
Look and speak of marks emendated.
They bark and tear up the Redroot,
crouching down, then begin to passant.
Horrible happenings make the weak grow splenic.
Hearken towards the discouragement that’s splenic.
It’s dripping from my veins yet never enough.
I grow beastly, like you, and move to passant.
Never wanting the surreal to perish in literality
yet defacing my own Redroot.
Let this be known, and emendate.
If all succumb, what’s worth emendating?
Ghostly breath resembles the ghastly and splenic
reverberations of minds, a daunty Redroot.
Envision this and tear me up. I have not enough
strength. Quick to sharpen this literality
but still stumble to passant.
At first, the death took to passant
in salty depths, but only I emendated.
Never a fact, only these literalities
compel. Soon they all become splenic.
Until eternity was lost; it was never enough
to survive. We regurgitated our Redroots.
Forgotten meanings of a Redroot
became a driving force to passant.
In remission, some knew what enough
was. Still, only I could emendate.
The significance of dormant mentality- rooms became splenic.
Some never cared for reality; a literality.
See now the literality of the Redroot.
Without it, all is splenic with a Devil’s passant.
I still emendate; hoping soon that the infinitesimal is enough.