Monday 4/11/2016 12:07:00 AM

the practical abyss breathes its contempt. a grey thief louder than the geometry that spoils it. the wind bleeds. always loudly. at the edge of the flesh. where the bones are still soft, but the choices are hard. simple ghosts in their nervous bedsheets. taking notes on the panic. pretending there is a gap between the beginning and the end.

the temporary kingdoms of reluctant gods. crooked ladders into empty heavens.

the slope has its opinion. the velocity of touch against the perpendicular of skin. missing footsteps that plague every moment. a drum beat. a rhythm as silent as its surrender.

trust is a contagion. it makes us ill.

hope is a disease. we are all infected.

0 comments:


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