that fall like drunken bees from these ******* lip
shaped lies which know little but to speak;
buzz, flitter, fly, a sonorous chorus losing remorse
on each syllable that courses the Moors of my throat.
You know. The **** stained pulse so saccharine in a
heart beating if only by rote, forgetting the
ruts dug by nails scraping flesh til the
passion's long lost
all cinders, left on a ledge of rust.

at the precipice of why where weary was will weave its rest
lies a lustful lye in strings tugged by dust;
nothing but a dream, but the crop clipped short for
seamless reciprocation, of feelings lost and rusted.
a wakeful sleep wanting but wont for desire to
keep fussing towards fruition so taut
on the shoulders of a god worshiped by a fostered
lust.

A single year strikes long
in the tooth of night
When all you do is wait.
For fear—we go, we climb
and drag ourselves out of
despair.

A hole we dug ourselves,
affixed to the nails, beneath
the skin, and dusted with a
smile.

It was only a year,
I say, but to believe?
There are only so many
lies I can permit myself
to tell.

At the end of the wait,
behind the chime of a
client that strikes its
golden mark at the corner
of my screen?

There.
I found it in the eaves
between a thumb and forefinger.
I found it in a conversation,
where words were written.

Where voices failed.
Where stories sat only
to tell.