Echo, cricket,
Thump, stump.
The very loud things
Galloping through the silence.
The creaking of stairs like the breaking of bones
That snapped tin cap,
Clinging onto the prophesied labor of your last breath,
Oscillating through your liquefied ontology.
Ethanol overflown and embodied.

Cricket cricket,
The underlying intrinsic.
The empty tone of a distant voice.
The spaces of letters and words so magnified
So wide,
Expanding like an unstoppable void.
Oh my,
Here it comes,
Shadowed by your hissing tongue.
You are glittered,
Pinnacle bitter.
Cloaked in pure white.
Not a thread of disguise.
Twinkle, twinkle,
Buggy, rugged eye.
Those razor touched lines,
Translucent and caressed,
Reminiscent and enmeshed,
Like faded pale stripes,
Hugging the armor of canvas flesh.
Walking among these thin lines,
Head down, musky powdered stench,
Awaiting the inevitable rise and fall.
Of the intangible crux of a hollow memory,
Woven inside the synthetic fabric of the undelivered.
Oceanic cold shiver,
Piercing through our empty, untethered souls.

Red lines spiral, bleeding all around me.
Meandering through spaces of consciousness so wide.
Carnivalesque carnivores galore,
Silently laughs and takes a ghostly step inside.

An unblinking eye arises and hides behind the tainted clouds in the painted sky.
I see it crawl beneath the surface,
Gazing into the images I thought I had buried alive.
It's peaking through the dirt where he decadently sits,
Staring behind bars of dust with his razor eyes glaring at my wrists.
Where my innocence slept itself to death,
And cradled its soul beneath stacks of broken stems of the mind.