Saturday 7/06/2013 11:45:00 PM

soft slopes draw their lines. a timid virus. eager to infect. the number throbs. the words beat. small storms in a series of hurricanes. she bends to reach the monster's lips. her moment forged in the anticipation. costly choices spent too easily.

they touch the glass. the sober arithmetic of want. needles without thread. stitching together moonbeams and whispers. their proximity to preception a telling embrace.

empty drawers clutch the darkness. with aching fists and dull pencils. the story is always the same. faces on the dime. ripe with familiar edges. and missing walls. a ritual of faces. each one more distant than the last.

a scrape of wolves. all disguised quite well. eager to devour grandma's lunch. the thick of the woods still at her heels. as she notices the claws.between their fingers.

a chaos of conditions swelling to create. each tiny moment in a series of trillions. a cannon of flesh. in a war of absense.

0 comments:


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