stuttering lips cure the shadows of their cancer. but the dead are still the dead. and the world is still flat in some places. expressions like ladders made of rope. nearly impossible to ascend. templates of skin. anticipate the colors that seldom come.
those lazy corners never fail to surprise. with their contents. equally as empty as they are dense. with butterflies and their deceptive sneezes.
the years throttle. the hours combust. inside the engine of our traumas. skin like pages. breath like ink. and the words that would claim them. for everything we've never been.
it's the absense that's most appealing. the limp in her voice that sparks.
the flames have their own ambitions. but the ashes belong to us.
it's not enough just to be crippled. you need to break.
the machine has its parameters. the distance has its girth. lovers get lost. touch remains.
Monday
11/18/2013 12:26:00 AM
| Life Poems |