Tuesday 8/22/2006 11:49:00 PM

The marble sky sick with its own force. Waiting for questions I won't ever ask again. The clouds draw their maps in the shades of storms still to come. The horizon pressed deep into the cleavage of the moon. Suffocated by what saves it.

There we are. Frail again.

Fixing everything that's broken with duct tape and rubber bands.

Everything's temporary.

Everything's wrong.

Even after all those clouds are gone.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.