Sad Labels:
dark poetry
,
sad poems
,
sad poetry
,
uncertainty
no names nor ugly apertures. only the constant of the orbit. as the center strains against our hunt.
the peculiar division of words. all wet paint and spoiled corners. the ache of the perpendicular. as time peels away our skin.
no more counting. as the catastrophe unwinds us.
just numbers. alone in their utter absolution. and all the equations that ultimately failed them.
simple lines. like the wind daring the sun, and stumbling colors. letting us fall.
no choices. only the curious conceit of expired thoughts. so many little boxes. full of dead things.
waiting to be opened.
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