Friday 3/23/2012 12:22:00 AM

the border. trembling edges. leaves lost in the fury of the wind. clutch the branch. waiting for gravity to stick its muddy needle in.

she's a liar. because that is what the numbers insist. bent nails teasing the hammer. as the walls struggle to stay up. her truth is her fortune. the way she wears it so carelessly. in pencil marks on the flesh. contrite eruptions of freedom measure her prison in doorways and windows.

the moment shudders. barely plucked strings on a never played violin. sick with a lifetime of music.

she's a sum. betrayed by the numbers. a word. where the voice is treason.

the colors. anemic gods. gather their bent bones. stale labors of touch. build simple heavens from the addiction.

breath on the window. forces her to look. inside.

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