Saturday 9/02/2017 12:53:00 AM

soft trenches in the sober of her choices. no voice. just whispers. in fading time machines. destinations in the flesh that continue to take us nowhere.

an economy of want.  a poverty of touch. spoil for consent. in raw cold rituals of trust.

the sweet fruit hangs low. in the shadows of grief. the sour seeds nurture their roots in the skeletons that pretend us.

the rain tries to listen. but the fall renders it deaf. the wind wishes to see. though its eyes are absent. the distance dances. rough blades coaxing the stone. friction sings. velocity chokes.

confident in the speed of mass.

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