In marble faces I found a fluttering that pushed blood into every cavity inside the you that wishes to be not.
I threw prayers into ceiling fans- laying limp inside the gulf, to know that dry wall peeling back was all to greet me.
Just ashen fluff flying endlessly into rotaries, and an inquiry turned to bird song, something about windows and deception.
It’s all cliche- it’s all cliche, the dismissive reiteration of a phrase that piques the you begging to be not, coiled in skin, wishing to be a limping diagram of human musculature.
it all grows dimmer when you realize that the horizontal is redundant, rareness becomes a beguiling piece of parchment filled with scribbles imparting nonsense to the eyes.