There isn't much sky in this pallid, stale cocoon no greens nor greys, no electric branches searing fragile, barren walls. But the heady, sagging scent of moisture suggests a storm-- yes, there was once me: a turbid bloom, an opportunist exhausting avidity in one overarching spill. As I rolled through your gutters, flippant and bleeding into everything, you rose with the dryness of the day and spoke of your immurement, the feebleness of my mold and mildew.
i wish that i could inspire you. i have run out of tricks. poem 2 from "favorite words in the English language" impromptu collection