Thanks for comments, Inky and dip. dip, you have it close enough. Poems about poetry are never a good idea but I tried. Think of each stanza as crumpled ball of paper in a corner as the poet tries different things in search of a truth to be found. So they are all separate poem attempts which could be the unifying aspect but that's too abstract to pick up from the writing, I guess. My nod to form is tailoring line lengths to create shapes, which influences word choices and thus the meaning, if any, to be found in the piece. It becomes what it is.   

                                        Sliver


I am tired. My isolation of god-kill
has exhausted me. I have abandoned
my memories on outcrops of nostalgia,
and tattooed my cliff-tops of desolation
with liar’s glyphs and cynical graffiti.

I have swallowed stones, twisted
on foreign altars inimical with regret,
and wept acidly in sight of the sun,
having fled before a cyanide moon
hidden in indigo rain in the dawn.

I seek no redemption for patterns
impaled on slivers of circumstance,
nor any random unfolding of truth
by earthly egos and written faiths,
only freedom and the fall of days.

Jan, glad you liked the piece. Would you humor me in future by not quoting my full poem before replying? Thanks, Mark.