Thursday 1/09/2014 01:21:00 AM

her fingers work the wilted prisons of gods and time. the delicate poisons that fortify our madness. soft edges in the darkness that sharpen agsint the sting of light.

the distance whispers. blood on the blade dries. the edge is polished with confession. the map is drawn with whys.

hunger boasts its questions. in shallow cuts and thin ulcers. a fiction of choices. bargains the narrative. a preponderance of words. rush to fill otherwise empty skins.

sorry reds. and regretable blues. broken windows. lick at the wind. the winter wagers the dead. vacant soldiers in a war of missing moments.

the epiphany recognizes those strangers. fractions of how.

these stubborn ghosts still peddle their worthless math.

0 comments:


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