Pole 28 Poem by Rebecca Stansfield

Scentless graves embark,
this there spreading of fake illusion,
swimming through me was all in by nature,
eminently creatures inside of me.
The mover moving, more it's moving,
being jaded, submissive to the thrill,
and essence passes entirely,
happy? ! .. (well, I'm more of a pole!)
A standing unhappy, angry POLE!
Happy (not) and alone!
And all this while I'm confronting the 'buts'.
To a smile leaving as a new art concept as beauty?
(Everything is new art now, if you didn't know.)
It's realising; it's the creatures running over me.