Wednesday 10/29/2014 12:56:00 AM

beige graves wear their waxy moons. the angles inventing space. where we are suffocaitng. parched kingdoms slip out of their grab. temporary gods in broken mazes. the light holds its breath. waits for sight to remember.

yellow murders toil in their prison. the day is always born. forever dead.

her words are an intersection. everything is turning.

the hours shrug. the distance sighs. she doesn't want to know the world. it doesn't need to know her. all sand and gnats in a bald charisma of corruption. an impotent chorus of
hounds barking from behind their fences.

the bridge is low and loud and impossible to forgive. 

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