Drying out
Under your spit
You are not sprinkling my hair with dew
I am not the flower
Concave lenses cover the cornea
A patch of salted water
Blurs and blues
Upon weaknesses
What am I here for
What are you here for too
Maybe if we hung ourselves
Where bright lights shine
The sorrows would dip their heads
In a *** of boiling sand
Stale sweat stains
A smell one flick away
Still emanates
Through the pores or upon skin
Presence presents itself
Stands, facing a blank wall
Reflecting the mirrors reflection
Where am I
Knocks resonate through dirt stained knuckles  
I know
I knew
Glass is boiling
Sand is forming
Crystallizing
Breathing breathing
Quicksand
Where sheer filamented fly wings
Are reaped under burdened black skies
Long forgotten, permanent
In trenches and creaks
Long, at last, lasting
They are wearing gravel capes to cover up the crimson-gray
Retire, land it over
Hand by hand
Wrists tangling shyly
Through the mist
To the sight of blind
To the mere sense of moths
Covered by an inch of dirt
Obscured and
Out of view