I.E.

I.E.

Is it often

satisfactory,

to think it natural

that I comes before E,

and that words grow as plants,

some filled with poison.

 

Then it must be

obligatory,

the hurting

as a rock hits flesh,

coincidently happening

in the same forest.

 

Almost pathological.

 

And a glance at the sun

will blind,

in the deepest water.

 

Being born

into a life

without balance.