It’s the midsty morning, all grammar’s run amuck and the rapture won’t take me.
They’re lining up, the letters and errant punctuation.
Spray-tagged against walls they’ll torment the souls who’ll stay here in god’s mean timing.
I keep putting apostrophe’s where they don’t belong.
It’s an oblonging of words and it will always be my denial.
What’s possessed me?
I could pose esses, caressing them down to tildes, til disappointed and unsexed by a symbolic life on its side, they'd rise back up to text, not angry but sure their standing’s worth fighting for.
That’s nothing but a bad dream.
Line theft has left this man fantastical and it’s broken my container of finger-twitching quotations.