Tuesday 10/11/2011 12:07:00 AM

the ocean wonders just how we found our way to the dirt. the thunder puzzles over the source of the rain. each of them a tiny hole in a very large boat.

wearing her monsters in desolate fevers. claws blame the blood for the red.

she's had her share of the wind. dim stairwells at the base of her skull. humming with the footsteps of dark places both above and below. empty elevators caught between inspiration and panic.

drawing her battles. on torn burlap. and fouled crutches. distant wars left on her pillow.

the chaos worries. a small victim. dwarfed by the crime committed against it. a lazy oblivion disguised as epiphany. the truth frets. a tiny fracture in the continuum of touch. choking out the flood. the enormity of nothing overwhelms the tiny instruments that we use to measure it.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.