on the heels of my cartoon, but belaboring the art.
sifting through the truth of my crutch.
my high ideals, sweltering
in the sun.
my reason, dismembered.
too bad, you had that light therapy
that raised your skin.
the bruises say nothing about -
your god...
but i savor the irony, when it -
almost does.

you're like a flower that almost bloomed.
chaste and defiled by the wind...
a cumbersome fruit.
ripe in the dark... but under the sun -
a voracious
dot.

and apparently
mute.