Friday 4/10/2020 11:35:00 PM

we expect the red. orphaned veins that remain open long after the scars have formed over the cuts.  we anticipate the yellow. stray dolls sheltering inside the molted flesh that was once ours to feel.

the trouble is we know everything and nothing. humanity's persistent paradox.

we taste the blue. the collapsing tunnels of our past. we feast on the green. the virulent monsters churning inside us.

the maps we draw are so fragile. the places they take us so delicate.

we sip the orange. the sweet supplication of lust. as it breathes its air into our empty chests. we stroke the purple. the voracious hunger of tomorrow.

the moments we fetch are stolen from each other. our debt compounds.

our want is soft. we drown in it.

we chase the horizon. eyes closed. fists clenched. we bite down on the edge. just as the abyss opens up.

it almost makes sense.

except more often than not, our colors have bled.

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