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Prose of a Con

Poetry and Prose by Russell Wardlow

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I Dreamed Reflections

September 1, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

I dreamed I fell asleep in a sarcophagus…
after swallowing intoxicating thoughts of martyrdom and a coming apocalypse,
like oxygen traveling down my esophagus
mulling over pellets…
and cartridges

contemplating Ancient Egyptian encrypted inscriptions
for prescriptions
and their usage of the uniquely symmetrical feathers of an ostrich
coupled with their affinity for the lotus-like a botanist

I go into, deep trances of travel, but for now,
any hypothesis is pocketed
for when more time in the sublime can be deposited
decoding formless images from my third eye’s oculus
realizing any pursuit of happiness I once admitted to
and conceived of, can’t be reminisced without an asterisk

wondering if,
a spiritual life could be more than obscure and monotonous
or had I even began that lifestyle yet,
had my desire for instant gratification become too dominant
trying to, make too much senseless sense out of senselessness

revisiting the resulting consensus of a carnal thirst quenched versus
how a life of moderation-
no attachments, and sensual deprivations
can somehow seem so preposterous

could I, choose and discern beyond what isn’t already visually obvious
or is my attempts at self-restraint a half-hearted mockery
detailing my own hypocrisies

this unyielding feeling fills veiled shields like windmills,
which till fields, and tilts and stilts, instills chills, distills thrills
and peels reels of still hills,
as both height and depth equally builds and feels so ominous

because my scattered pursuance metaphors the same littering of various condiments
just to spike my responses to my ebbing confidence
chasing shock values for fraudulent acknowledgment
inconsequential accomplishments

and
nostrums for self-inflicted problems
exhaled out my flared nostrils ad nauseum
until nauseous yet noxious and obnoxiously posturing
as emotions have become more and more disconsolate

too much homage to the mirage of impermanent gods
and opulence-
consecrated and idolized like Amen Ra

I need a-
literal miracle, a physical sign,
not just lyrical drivel, but a spiritual symbol
my name evolved to WayOfLife

as I, hold up my Ankh as a monument
for my own innocuous symbol of an ancestral historical and ethereal conduit
while my day to day plays in a mix of gray shades haze and opalescence

bounding through rifts and this mystifying mist of imbalanced emotions,
a lost self, and patterned mind trips, amidst oppositions and consequences

mine mine mine!-apostrophe

I’d be remiss
if I didn’t admit that I’ve sought exits
when I didn’t feel as if,
I truly ever existed

I need less syllables,
more sounds,
more vows and less consonants

I need less country
and more continent

less promises
and less prominence

more community
more common ground
more more more continuity
more commitment
more high morale
and more moral competence honestly

then, I raised from
things dreamed, praised, preyed on, and prayed for
in my sarcophagus
taking in and letting go-
the deepest breath of a new revelation’s oxygen

walking to a park silently,
where I would
ponder skipping rocks across a pond, reflexively reflecting
on the void in my heart and the emotional lump in my esophagus

intuiting purpose and divine intelligence constantly at work working within my consciousness
and those rocks I skipped
were really pellets
from dissected cartridge

Filed Under: Culture, Spirit, Trauma

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Prose of a Con

Prose of a Con is a collection of Russell Wardlow’s prose and poetry written entirely behind bars. Through writings on family, spirituality, freedom, love, justice, redemption, and vulnerability, Russell seeks to show the humanity and hope of individuals like himself who are incarcerated.

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