Do these small stupid griefs
In relation to those who’ve lost relations
Count anymore?
My litany of the blues
Baby, periwinkle, teal, Robins egg, sky
Even indigo
Haven’t the weight of, depth of
Cobalt, slate, cerulean, flint, smoke, navy.
Lead.
My alchemy chest, empty
The weight of fog, heavy breath
Less expansive, slow filling
A pound of fathers, lighter then
a pound of dead birds,
becomes hard to hold, still
as the volume grows.
Dec 6, 2020
Dec 6, 2020 at 8:43 PM UTC
Worn dull, tired of lab grown
language stone carved
The way that can happen
Not just the obvious sonant brutality
acid bare knuckles
Other words, shaped for obscurity
slide
ar o u nd and a ro un d and
a r o u n d and
Skirting certain description
hiding behind
Below
like earth, unlike earth
unverified, unburied, not bare
Dec 6, 2020
Dec 6, 2020 at 8:10 PM UTC