It's seven-
-Syllables too quiet
And I twitch--
From teachers on my hand
Open-- close-
Open-- close
Canyons of flesh
Etch pain for remembrance
To the familiarity,
Of skin that dances
To sun-kissed residues.
Sleeping Shroudily
With meadow-blossom
Tethered by the wind.
But frabjous day
Is counted, in minutes and
seconds.
Made of earthquakes
Catching clouds.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
It's seven-
-Syllables too quiet
And I twitch--
From teachers on my hand
Open-- close-
Open-- close
Canyons of flesh
Etch pain for remembrance
To the familiarity,
Of skin that dances
To sun-kissed residues.
Sleeping Shroudily
With meadow-blossom
Tethered by the wind.
But frabjous day
Is counted, in minutes and
seconds.
Made of earthquakes
Catching clouds.
