These things are never me or mine.
These clocks ticking are a maxed out card.
You
       run
             as if you knew you were the mark.
The collective outweighs my lies.
July rains;
September moans.
August though...it whispers:
"Order in the court!"
Control and substance are married lovers
whose pits are tired of the night time sun.
Those type or miracles don't have a place
in my head to make sense
(It has
           it's own bed
                                 inside my head.)
The stitching in my heart is slowly coming
undone under that night time sun.
Mothers can only do so much before their
hands crust over.
These months run cold now,
unaware that they each have cousins,
waiting for their turn.
July 20, 1987.
There was a mistake on that day.