there is something
that needs to be done,
revere in the plot
or a merciless yelp of rebellion;
the night consolidates
into something no hand could grasp
no eyes could pare
with stabbing vision, paring the skin
of it, leaving it flayed
hurtling in the corridor like a child
razed by high-rise of sun
the bucolic ornaments of downtown
seething with hammered words,
it starts to rain, diving into the gutter.
there is something that needs to be done.
tonight i look past the haze of the window
and see a vision gyrating, like a hand of
hours full and whirling, preyed on
an iron-wrought webbed without relent
from a tarantula's sepulcher,
a seraph denied of flight.
this is what needs to be done;
all-kissing twilight of paradisiacal twining
a name extolled in all that is quiet,
dismembering parts of you
as i try to once more assemble the night
and give it your flair, your tonal voice,
your riverrun hair, your leap of faith,
again and again the vaudeville of stars
propagate in the starless morning
necessitating unsung surrender
heeding patterns, fluid lithographs
drawing a new caricature of pain.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
there is something
that needs to be done,
revere in the plot
or a merciless yelp of rebellion;
the night consolidates
into something no hand could grasp
no eyes could pare
with stabbing vision, paring the skin
of it, leaving it flayed
hurtling in the corridor like a child
razed by high-rise of sun
the bucolic ornaments of downtown
seething with hammered words,
it starts to rain, diving into the gutter.
there is something that needs to be done.
tonight i look past the haze of the window
and see a vision gyrating, like a hand of
hours full and whirling, preyed on
an iron-wrought webbed without relent
from a tarantula's sepulcher,
a seraph denied of flight.
this is what needs to be done;
all-kissing twilight of paradisiacal twining
a name extolled in all that is quiet,
dismembering parts of you
as i try to once more assemble the night
and give it your flair, your tonal voice,
your riverrun hair, your leap of faith,
again and again the vaudeville of stars
propagate in the starless morning
necessitating unsung surrender
heeding patterns, fluid lithographs
drawing a new caricature of pain.
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