the voice is corrupt. all loose knots and ignorant transitions. like the ripple of skin as we pretend to fit. and the whisper of blood as we commit to the wounds. the silk of gravity juxatoposed to the sandpaper of touch.
the smaller monsters tame enough. those didactic negotiations with the biggers ones.
morality taut. all tree branches and fallen leaves. nervously arguing with gravity.
a chaos of time in a certainty of flesh. the bone are absolute. we are stolen from the edge of ourselves. a ripe hysteria of choices. a silent war thick with the dead.
the days spend their vague funerals. the currency of grief. exhausted, but tenable.
simple moments consume us. all the rest are lost.
the maps are drawn in pencil. the bridges are always ink. these paper lives resist the wind. at least until it rains again.
permanent predators with temporary fangs.
Sunday
7/12/2015 11:24:00 PM
| Life Poems |