Monday 5/13/2013 12:09:00 AM

those yellow doors haunt her again. slivers of sickness running parallel to the lock. the hours form their paradox. with threads of skin perpendicular and needles fouled in want. those empty rooms are too patient with their contents. she grows old waiting for them to reveal what is lost.

these blue roads boast of journeys to be taken. or to be taken by. wagging tongues in the mouths of fate. puke their treasure maps.

alone has always suited her. moreso with age. her voice a monster. manic with rage. her heart a bucket. riddled with holes.

she chases the colors. yellow doors. blue roads. purple thresholds. paths to take. or to be taken by. destinations more alive than she's ever been.

places. to be. someone else.

colorful places.

needles and thread. to mend the holes.

0 comments:


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