to figures round and halfway buried beneath the coarse grains of rice and sand,
filed down to a raw edge, dulled and raw, washed over with salted water, juice of lemon,
tears and spit saturated with viscous phlegm running over blood-red rusted iron bolts along
the edges of unloosened ends.
to somewhere over in nowhere i've seen, a tumbled half-mast flag of forgotten dreams,
the whims and thoughts of a moment long dead cloaks the ceiling sky blanket under a blackened cloud pouring gray-green rain on the top of my head.
to the end of the bellowing sorrowful shore, as it clamors against the sunbleached driftwood boards,
it hurls itself, it spills and grabs against the ground it splits upon
No comments:
Post a Comment