flowers dry
leaves fall of
an amazing potpourri.
14/4/2019.

I wash my hands,
And wring them dry,
Watching my worries,
Disappear with the grey water,
Down the plughole of life.

eyes devour tasteless words
sprung up from the depths
conniving little snitches
Her nails twist and twitch
dripping in, with disgust
sipping on the attics secrets
                   it leaks
      and
                   it reeks
She sits like a falling queen
bordered with flaking fake gold
the lips crumbling dry
She had no tone left
caked in old skin
many Women scream 'poor Her'

I’m looking up to see the star,
a silver sky in sunless time,
the silver thought, in silver gown,
the star is shy, my lips are dry,
I’m looking up to see my gown,
a shyness storm in sunless time,
wait no more swallowed in delight,
dark, purple leaves, a kiss so bright.

Dry crying
with your mistless tongue
gacking and clatting
(a toy tapping out the winding
in its clockwork mockery)
Dry crying your devotions
and gloved family
into nothing more than vented memory
Your pores pelt vapor
You treaten thinner
stern thing
true to your wood
Dry to make your soldier state
Link rank with your troop mate
Crop your mind foreign of frills
Pay attention with your brothers in drill

from a dry split pod,
a lot of winged seeds explode;
a future forest

Nothing dries faster,
then black ink filled
with regretful words

Describe him.
- He was dripping with sweat.
- Was it sweet?
- What?
  Oh, um I dunno.
- sigh
- But I know this much.
  He sweated under my weight.
  The nocturnal wind would then dry his sweat stiff.
  And he, perserverant as ever, would just sweat some more.
- Ok, so who collapsed first?