Friday 1/15/2010 01:03:00 AM

Dancing with scarecrows. The unfortunate acumen of damaged persons. Flip and dry like picked flowers. Soil like lubricant between each delicate petal. Always waiting for dead things to remember us.

The lion on her porch. Warm fangs trace the pictures. The moon draws on the glass. When seeing through it is too difficult.

Tin men in their brick gardens. Begging for oil. Sediments and circumstance. Causing the balloon to pop. The atmosphere too harsh. Too close. I had forgotten what gravity was. Until that puncture appeared.

Now everything is so heavy again.

I busy myself picking up the pebbles. Little pieces of the boulder supply the choices. The bigger ones decide for us.

Sight being more desire than light.

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