Nailbed, hot stone.
A simmering anger, old.
Heavy.

Some battling debate of
loss thrown away.
A small, gray key.
Join them on a ring and
give back, give back, give back.

See now, new currents drag my pennies.
Down.
I'm an octopus penning idiocy.
The counter, brown.
Such a small counter.

But this small key, so heavy to give away.
Is it loss or thrown away?
If so, who did it?

Mind never grasped the sorrow,
the secrets, hid in serpent of glimmered italics
and windfalls left fractured for years
rediscovered in haste of other dilemmas.

Ok, it'll be three dollars (and a bit).
That's all it took a heart to turn.
Ashen walks and stale apple pie,
unstately promise.

It needn't rhymy.
I have no more timey.
Another chunk of sanity slides
(and that bit).