silence is a dull blade. wandering cuts. shallow and jagged. distribute their pain in whispers. meandering bridges chase the din. this chaos of touch that promises relief.but mostly infects.
the journey possesses. greater than velocity, less than mass. the science is strict. the interpretation more lenient. the itch is deep. too deep to scratch. still we venture further in.
the colors remember. thick with the panic of when. All long dresses and sweet, sweet songs. as we take a moment to pretend there's still more than there is less.
reasoning with the math. she finds the decimal is in the wrong place.
too close. too close is always a danger.
the threat of taste. the loyalty of skin. permanent wagers on temporary conditions.
only the needle remains. after all the holes have been mended. only that small knot. to hold all those stitches in place.
The apples still in the garden are left to rot.
Thursday
7/03/2014 09:54:00 PM
| Life Poems |