Sunday 2/06/2011 12:03:00 AM

empty martyrs. teeth and storm. a rotting bucket. that was then she confesses. and i am it. dark playgrounds and creaking chains. as the alarm catches up with sleeping children. and the weak dreams in which they rest.

gauging the years in swatches of skin. the currency of touch her only remaining asset. the hours sway between this disease and all those that surround it. dark lanterns in weighted fists. the arid wrench of decision chaps her lips. as she tries to speak.

deserts. everything is washed in them. brittle sands score my fingers. until they are shattered. and the echoes are all they hold.

the truth. the loyal conspirator of emperors and paupers. just another face. in this house of mirrors.

boats full of the dead. with only ghosts to steer them.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2021. All Rights Reserved.