"clavicles" poems
Through the naked crest of your back
The dips above your clavicles
And the way I lunge at your jaw.
Through pale hands and swollen lips
And heavy eyes
It echoes
Resonates through thin air
And seeps into the cracks of the walls
The way it collides with your skin
And buries through the flesh
That moment, awakening, I got through
You know now how much I love you
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
you are inches
measured by miles away
bulldozing oriental food
you don't intend on eating
around your plate
and i am imagining
the translation of asking
for a broom in a foreign language
for when you shatter over small talk
or the first sentence to start with "so"
breaks you into shaking
that i can feel from across the table
and i am thinking now
about tectonics and how you must be daydreaming of being submerged in a book
back home or gripping tightly
to bedsheets begging for familiar warmth
i can tell by the way you are looking at me
that you are feigning our salutation embrace
seconds drowned in ankle deep water and i wonder if you see my hands
as jackhammers and if the reason
why you hug so hard
but only for a moment
is to be as sharp as possible
so that i do not smell your perfume
or notice that you aren't wearing any and why
there are few suprises
in the safe you claim is a mouth
where shades of plush pink
hide a sickly pallor
and i continue to look over
brick & mortar borders
and think how maybe
she is thinking of kissing
but certainly not me
not these apologies nailed to my face
i give myself a moment
of benefitted doubt that you sometimes
picture your frame under mine
and if your clavicles would crack
if i were to touch them
i am sorry that i am a victim of imagination
but i swear i chalk it up
as the forgotten feeling
for when you look up
and the person you are looking
at is gazing directly at you
you have painted yourself
as a mosaic in my mind
as a mess of dust & incoherent words
that all sound like please in my ears
but that doesn't explain why
my hands are the ones that are shaking
when i imagine you
imagining me
in the spaces of yourself
where you've forgotten
you could put someone
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
So
from your hand,
I learned to drink the light...
A residue of dahlias
in their late summer blood,
rimmed white with the fluid evening,
the soul, some wild falcon
folded in golden lullabies
of nightingale acoustics...
Eclipsed by the gentle pathos
of the body, shining
as I leave it behind,
crying in its dark thorns,
some forlorn fragment shudders
in the silver embrace you lace with calm...
As it laps
into that crumpled karma
and dreams it was once
a jaguar of dark passages,
held in the long hands of sorrow,
see, these clavicles emerge through orchids...
And a liquid resurrection
envelope the earth you bathe
from the fugitive gesture of wings,
so, it was in these black,
grim prairies of the soul...
Where I
at last learned
to drink the light from your hand....
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:32 PM UTC
I see the mole.
It lies just south of his petite clavicles,
parenthesizing his fragile neck.
I'd like to find the others.
Moles dotting his figure,
beacons on his frame.
Showing me where to touch.
I'll map them all out,
every last speck.
Just call me the cartographer.
I'll connect the dots, drawing lines,
building routes with my fingertips.
Your body will be mapped like the Silk Road.
But no ideas will be exchanged, nor words spoken.
No empires will be connected across this globe.
Only moles.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
I am not ashamed to love you
As i sit here and cry
I am not ashamed to have love-d you.
No I am not ashamed to cry for you.
I am not ashamed to love you.
With every fibre of my being.
With every sin, with every moral
with every, ****** hair on my head.
I am not afraid to love you.
I am more afraid of not loving you, than loving you.
I am afraid of you loving me.
I am more afraid of you loving me more than i have even been afraid in my life.
Because than that makes love real.
I lost my love a long time way back when.
It's not important.
There's details in the details.
But my faith in loving you will not wane, falter, stop or die.
I am not ashamed to cry waterfalls of salty tears into my hands for you.
I am not ashamed of messaging you 3am in the morning to see how you are.
and getting no reply.
I am not ashamed to know that my attempts to love you are futile.
Yes, you.
You who would want to punch me in the face, the throat, the clavicles of my heart
to stop me, from loving, you.
I am not ashamed to love you like you were my only love.
I will sing for you in the car my love, i will hold your hand, i will bake you muffins,
My love.
And you would want to **** my very smile with your eyes.
I am not ashamed to lie on my bathroom floor with arms in my chest, with pain in my stomach, and my eyes blind,
from loving, you.
I am not.
I am not.
I am not.
I am not ashamed to be the laughing stock of my friends, family and lovers past;
for loving losers like you,
for loving someone like you,
for loving someone who didn't deserve me,
treated me like ****
beat me,
use me, washed me up and dried me out, hung me out.
No i am not ashamed.
I am not ashamed to cry these tears because i lost you.
I am not ashamed to cry these tears because i am not in your arms.
For my heart beats strong.
For all these years,
through all these lovers,
through all these partners,
through all these ****** ******* tears.
For i love you more, each day.
For in this world where there is more hatred, pain, sorrow, suffering and loss
I would rather be ashamed for loving you,
than hating you for loving you once.
'We can only truly hate something we once also loved'
Logic eh? What else makes sense in this world?
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
like thighs
(shes got 'em)
them thick as ******* thighs
all skin and creamy
and the backs o' her knees taste
so good
(like sugar shes got 'em)
and that dark little spider web
o' ink shes got coming up her
shoulders out over her clavicles
shes got her neat little muscles
under it all bunching and loosing
muscles when she's (head down
biting 300 thread count) her hands
don't lie gripping and grabbing
snaring sheets and,
,
,
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 4:02 PM UTC
I have wished for years
That my collarbones would make themselves
Known.
That my muscles would
Atrophy.
And my skin would become
Paper thin.
All for the sake of exposing the calcified lattice
That holds me together.
Holds me down.
I have wished to see my ribs
So that I could better understand the bars that my heart
Beats so fiercely against.
I have wished my spine to rise from beneath sinew
Form peaks against my skin
Just so I can see
What makes a man
What backbone is
See what makes me
Stand
Against those things that I do not desire.
Yet here I am.
Synapses stretched between
Head
And
Heart
Eyes sundered, seeing what my heart can't take.
What my fragile fingers fail to grasp.
I am a graveyard.
Made of stars that decided they were meant for other tasks.
Rub your charcol across my bones
Just to see what stories the universe has told.
For it has lived and died a thousand times, and now
And now, this time around it chooses to call this body
Home.
So although there are days I wish my hip bones would rise like
Mountains
In the desert,
That this soft skin would part and give
Rise
To bones like Aspen trees,
I will accept that my
Clavicles
Are the bottom of the sea bed.
And I am
Mile
Upon
Mile
Of stormy ocean.
Still waiting to explored.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
talent --
that double edged sword or
sleepless dove with derringer wings
the ability to break yourself open
let others look inside your chest
and find the notorious self-doubt
pimpled succulent you keep fertilizing
because old habits never actually die
and the huge romantic idealism
of the old farmhouse heart
with crooked creaking screendoor
white paint chipped windowsill
the enduring softness of eyelashes left there
flies gorging themselves growing fat
from the dishes in the sink and
prickly leg hair still clutching the drain
sentimental tractor asleep in the barn
next to the weak ego rusted crowbar
the ivy-moss growing thick out there
perfect nostalgia really misplaced for
sepia tone memories i was never part of
a heart full of tongues and cute thighs
and backs of knees that i've never seen
lungs under clavicles filled with patient
lovers breaths never breathed
digging deeper with small fingers
for smooth freckled scapula flesh
that has never found warm pink rest
inside my cheap cotton sheets
-- i know that i have some
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Thou tangle the mortality
And seek the mourning of its course,
With an outrageous cloak that falls adrift
To have its custom afloat.
The decorations, thereof flatters this turmoil
That has its doubts and moments,
A longevity beheld upon the chores of the subject,
Never cognizes its everlasting trials,
For those of which handles the elation
Of successive falsification.
I know not of the clumsiness of hymns,
That sighs the mourning of a course,
The chaotic iteration of single pauses
And the faltering of a mere slope.
I know not of the turmoil
That bedecks the frostbitten clavicles,
Onto which no sigh wavers
A petition of no faze and any dome.
I know not of the cloak
That nestles around a haze;
Bringing confusion that betrays every vivid sense.
Let it be the matter, ‘tis a matter of time(!)
Would it morph itself around the mourning mould,
When it dries away with the mud?
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
*When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut. I told myself, "I want to see the stars and the planets up-close." I think probably we all had that stage in childhood where we all wished to be space walkers like Armstrong.
But eight years later, now I don't wish to be an astronaut anymore. I wish to be a writer. Because I have already seen all of the stars and the nebulae in your eyes. I wonder how they all got condensed in those two small circles like the moon. I whisper to myself, "It's so lustrous."
I already felt the weightlessness of space in your kisses, and your hugs are like oxygen tanks -- I need them to breathe. And when I see you-- just looking at your gait and smelling your perfume is even more enthralling than being in a launching rocket ship that pierces through the clouds and breaks the invisible mantle that separates the Earthly skies from the cosmic tapestry called "the rest of the universe". And I float away from reality and just revolve around the idea of you and nothing more like how the satellites of Jupiter revolve around it almost eternally.
I don't need to see the constellations anymore nor the planets or the meteors because I have seen them all in your skin-- I painted them on your skin. Others might call it bruises, but they do not understand that your body-- your neck, your arms, your chest are empty spaces and it'd feel like a sin not to embellish them with love marks -- the bruises that do not scream pain but* I love you's. *And I love you.
More than all the splendor of space, I still find your hair and the arch of your back and the gaps between your fingers and your clavicles so much more beautiful. Even this galaxy we live in seem to be unfit for its name: Milky Way. I think that name suits better your complexion alone. And when you smile-- oh, your smile! -- it is more radiant than the brightest comet and more warm than the hottest blue star; even the sun in the most arid summer-- it just gives me sunburns, but your smile, only yours, renders my heart melted.
When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut because I wanted to see the space. But now I don't anymore. Because I learned that astronauts are just spectators and I want to write about the universe. I want to write about you.*
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
YADA TASHY ( "Originator Stone" )
Outside the first snow falls.
Her wounds are photographed.
Spoken of.
Described in detail.
Technical.
The overhead microphone
takes it all in.
Being dead she is
more naked
than she ever was.
Stripped of her
humanity.
She had ceased to be
who she used to be.
She is now
merely a cadaver.
The autopsy can not tell
her name.
She is Kuzuku.
Her mother called her
KuKu.
She had been born
with a caul.
KuKu was pregnant.
She was going to call
the child if it was a girl
. . .Yuki.
She couldn't conceive what
she would call it if a boy?
It was always going to be
a girl.
She liked candyfloss
and her hair up.
Now her hair is down.
It touches her shoulders.
As if her hair were
still alive.
The autopsy
wound by wound
tells of the hell
of her dying.
The voice is
deadpan.
Mechanical.
The coroner
breaks for coffee.
Bitter. Black.
"Ya da!"
as the Turks say.
"...with nothing..."
***
Kuzuku was named after the flowering plant/rampant **** Her mother always drank a tea made from it. Only her mother called her her pet name; "Kuku!" Her blacker than black hair always seemed like a living entity in itself as it danced upon her shoulders or splashed over her clavicles. She always wore off the shoulder dresses or tops even in winter cold. I once told her she had the cutest clavicles( "rekishi no naka de kawaī sakotsu" )in history which....always made her laugh. I told her she had well tempered clavicles and she laughed even more when the pun was explained to her. She had been born with a caul...a red caul. She it was who told me the Turkish tale or the Yada Daşı and of the Yadachy.
She had just met the man who would eventually stab her to death and she was greatly in love with him and his culture.
All these little scraps of humanity could not be disclosed by the autopsy which could never tell of how beautiful she was and what a joy she was to be around.
Her death was a horror tale told by a friend of a friend of a friend and hard to comprehend or believe.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC
i used to think my body would look prettier in a casket
but i spent hours looking at it in a mirror anyway.
sometimes I feel like my body doesn’t want me in it anymore,
or like my mind is trying to trick me into leaving.
my aching limbs and tired heart make me feel like
my body has been around for longer than I’ve been in it.
it's only just now starting to feel like it's mine
because when enough grown men yell at you from their pickup trucks
and enough frat boys shout at you from their porches,
you start to learn that your body isn’t really yours,
and it took me too long to be upset about that.
because when i stopped eating, i was the only one
who could feel that pit in my stomach,
and the only one who had to live in my exhausted body.
and i’m still not sure if i liked that or not,
but i do know that it made me feel strong.
and it took me too long to unlearn that feeling.
that safe feeling i’d get when i was all wrapped up in my hip bones and clavicles
and the waist i was always so scared to spill out of.
it took me years to learn that a cold heart isn't a blessing
but my feet still haven't gotten the message
i carry worry in my teeth
and shyness in my ankles,
i’m filled to the brim with feelings that
mix together so much, i can't tell which is which anymore,
and i overflow so often that i should be drowning in saltwater by now.
my heart races so fast,
it's a miracle i’m still alive.
but on those days when i’m held together with safety pins and good intentions
when i wear lipstick like armor and couldn't look you in the eyes if i tried
i will curl my knees against my chest
and hope that that will be enough to keep me in my body.
my body, that’s filled with endless love and cruelty
but not enough courage
it’s an argument i can’t win
it's a house i’m locked inside of,
but i’m not planning on going anywhere.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
Oh,
how your words drown my tormented soul in
nothing but their warm currents,
they caress down my neck and rest themselves on my chest
to find my uneven heartbeat nonetheless.
And,
I regret to inform you
my wants stay hidden with time & space above
for I had never imagined,
that it would be me you to want love
A dream,
the only comparison I would find suitable to describe you
one million miles away,
next time you wander the streets at night
find my reflection in the puddles
seeping through your woven fibre shoes
I find myself hoping,
not to lose you
for that would be a calamity I could not bear
I would never hear my name on your lips
Or feel your steady hands make their way through my hair
At the top of your lungs,
sing to me
for I long to hear your voice
& this time,
the waves will carry it close to me
Daisy petals & orchid blooms
rest tentatively in the concave of my neck
a pattern of small petals reveal themselves past my clavicles
down my sternum
covering the rosy buds atop my soft breast
Sir,
will you brush them away
with a kiss?
give me
someone
to hold
give me
starlit hours,
seconds,
to miss.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
He said: "Of all the chat sites in all the internet, she walked into the one I happen to use."
He was drunk when they first spoke.
But she was too enthralled by the fact that he thought she had good taste in music to notice.
It had taken her years to train her ears to appreciate the sound of a bass solo
and learn to distinguish the no name bands worth knowing, from those that were not.
She had an appreciation for clavicles
and wrote too many poems about what love was, wasn't, and should be.
She liked to pretend that she hated cliches, yet her favorite movie was chalk full of them.
She said: "I dig you."
She dug so many things about him.
He had so much worth digging.
His love of the ocean and all things aquatic.
His green-gray eyes.
His general lack of amusement with things of the romantic sort.
He was too sincere to ever use lols
and fancied himself most competitive cooking shows.
And though he'd never driven a car, he had been para-sailing.
She said: "You're my person."
He said" "Make the world your person."
So they continued on in their mutual amusement,
exchanging selfies, sweaters and songs.
They spoke a unique language consisting of
puns
snark
lyrics
and innuendo.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
You are a radar-buzz,
I feel the jitter when you are around.
It is stony, it is inescapable,
but I do not mind.
I might want it, even if it weren’t yours.
For your shake I have my own,
like a thousand peacocks, enhancing
themselves for their mates.
Already too bright.
And what they are, I cannot say,
not much better than my midnight jolt
when I go dancing in you.
Dilate your clavicles, sweet:
I am diving inward.
I think you sound like suicide inside,
do not want to admit you hate life.
So your body speaks for you.
That, the drone, it travels me in,
Love you like a son, a brother, a husband,
and cannot decide which is moving.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 5:30 PM UTC
Unravel me.
Plunge your fingers into the depths
of my anatomy-
wade into my rufescent flesh,
strum my fibers,
find me in the fissures
of my ivory bones---
then come back to the surface,
cling to the brims of my clavicles,
and tell me how
beautiful I am.
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 8:40 AM UTC
When you can't go outside in the cold
Cause it hurts your bones;
And you've caused self inflicted mayhem
On every surface of your skin
When the night is your only cherished friend
It comforts your deceiving soul
And sings you a fast tempo lullaby
-Kellie A Scranton
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 4:44 AM UTC
White Man! White Man!
You dare come and conquer this country?
This corner of the continent
Construct your castles with crystal windows
Looking out on a foaming sea
Model your marble walls, polished and pristine
On your porcelain teeth: terrible and tough
Paint clouds on the ceiling with paper fingers
Papyrus skin crumpling with age
Your knights galloped in on young geldings
Castrated to keep them clean
Like the sterile white cloths draped across their clavicles
You’d scar this landscape
With a squat whitewashed town
Matt and peeling
Dishevelled and overgrown
Black Man! Black Man!
You dare come and claim this country?
My corner of the continent
Behind boulders and barren hills
Coalfires choke the burned sky
I’m breathing in your smoke but at night
Your bullet-holes in the firmament glint
As stars glimpse the belching flame
Of your volcanic pride
Your bearded bishops bludgeoning
The bloodied populace of pockets of resistance
Scorched brown eyes smouldering
From here to the horizon
Of mournful ashen mountains, blunt and black
You’d build your walls of black onyx
Cold, hard and brutal
So let the battle-lines be drawn
Let us duel to the death until we mix
Into that emotional grey area between man and man:
Peace
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
I sat outside for hours last night.
I sat outside under the same July stars
twinkling new under an icy, November moon,
shoulders still bare and hair tied back,
looking for the misplaced summer in an anxious fall.
I didn't find it.
I found cigarette ashes clinging to the fur of my boots.
I found crystalline fog glazed cold to my skin.
I drew childish hearts and arrows in the ghost of my breath
and traced glassy teardrops clinging to sweatshirt sleeves.
I sat outside for hours last night
until even my lungs stiffened with the cold.
My clavicles stung with the prickling of snow
and my fingertips ached with the effort of clinging--
to grass, to wood, to paper, to smoke,
to snowflakes falling through liquid-like air,
to memories, to monsters,
to you and to me.
But I couldn't hold us.
We slipped like water through my clutching hands;
we melted like rocks that never even were.
We dripped, trickled, and fell like rain,
and we evaporated in the blaze
of an ending Indian summer.
I sat outside for hours last night
listening for lost crickets hiding sadly under leaves.
They buried themselves too well for me,
better than you ever will, it seems.
You float, always just under the surface of an endless, salty sea
no matter how much concrete
I pour for your shoes.
You never leave.
But I sat outside for hours last night
perfectly alone.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
I stood on the pill gray surface of a moon with my eyes closed against the pitch. Deafening silence encaptulates me swallowing every cell as I sit cross legged in the stomach of it. I felt her. The pump of her heartbeat colossal in the deep. I dissolve and recoagulate 20 trillion kilometers from her belly. White dwarf her ultraviolet laughter washes over me charring me black. Just beyond the speed of light I fight the cold vacuum spiraling through fathomless rings of planet sized asteroids she has caught within her gravity. I accelerate through her categorizing every element naming some as I go. Her molten core flows pure silver. Radioactive, attractive in totality, she is stealing my electrons and I'm losing all equilibrium. With reckless abandon I arc through her nitrogen ice eyelashes and lips play supernova melting me again into a pool of shimmering metal reflecting her every facet fractaling in infinitum Eye couldn't capture unable to dilate in time. The mind could not comprehend it driving to madness decompressing time. Switching polarity with her smile I float awhile in her warmth basking in total integration. Resting on the glaciers of her clavicles. I run my lips on the molten surface of her neck, and my hands found the small of her back marble smooth in the bitter black. Hair of plasma on obsidian shoulders cradling me as I reform. Her finger like Olympus Mans presses into my arm and she says something that I could not reproduce even after infinities of calculation. In this brand new mode she runs like code. Strands of proteins or DNA playing over mine becoming prime. The restorative gravity that brought us pulls atomicly until we are not.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
sternum (n.)
a bone extending along the middle line of the ventral portion of the body consisting of a flat, narrow bone connected with the clavicles and the true ribs.
I remember taking an anatomy class in high school, we had to memorize the bones of the body - the skeletal system. Scapula, humerus, mandible all favorable to the tongue, but I never liked the word sternum, it sounds far too angry, nothing like the supple it actually is. Years later I would still find myself walking to work and naming them off. Bones on my mind. Tibia, ulna, femur, breastbone.
Breastbone rolls around my mouth, lulls my anxiety towards its twin like a boat in calm waters. I think of your breastbone as a platform to profess my fascination. I am surprisingly amazed every time I count the steady rhythm of your heart, it's sound conducted as though your breastbone is a soundboard. I feel the slight ridges of your ribs when my head lays in the valley of your chest. There's not a day that I wouldn't love to get lost in the formations of your bones, each crevice a new place to hide - lounging in the curve of your collar bone, plucking the muscles of your fingers like guitar strings, getting lost to the soft scent of skin, and memorizing the plush roundness of your ******* each sensation leaves me with a new obsession. I look for replicas in everyday life, the hunt almost as intoxicating as smoke from campfires, or plucking wishbones from hens.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
it's the clavicles her
the
inching of
the
(her)the
vulnerable teasing the
at the edges pink the
trimmed in neatness the
amble of girlness palish
******* just and
softer coiling
hushed by
an inch
of boyness)
she(the)her(the)
by the way sir(the)
i 'er the
gonna perce ya
a radiant by the folding o' yer faultless gleaming
(spear to plunge)
your heart and *****
a rill to let
of crimson mangé
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
Im coming of age
In the era of the devoid
Hollow greed seeps unearned
from elephanitus of love
all the dead *** heads
and the glorifed child **** stars
live in tandem with virginity commerce
a descriptive high full of lies
here we are raised to never forget
the look on a beautiful girls face
when the zippers break and all the mallets fall
when mud and blood and ***** mix to a collegiate concoction
Leaving her to bear the scabbing burns
The openings the ambrosia flesh wounds
The giant stamp of pulsing indecency
The markings don’t go so well with her hollow moon smiles
They don’t blend with her regal clavicles
To bend them in with a wrench
Would do no damage to this already feral *****
Don’t try to hide
The billboards may be sagging
But they carry the message loud and effeminate
All the drum ticks and coated arteries will explode
They cant be stopped
Mucho gusto, muy bien
All that we ever where locked into some
Tooth paste stained and tattered bibliomeca
It is true I have become that broken shameful collection
Which we are taught to stain in the wood works of our memory
I turn to page 1168
And I know that the bruises will be permanent
Surrounding the globe and bridging in the gaps
The ones that they left between your calamity eyes
Will they still love me with one foot locked in a bear trap
And a hobo having the last of my eyelashes ?
Or maybe just the scary albinos at the san Francisco bar scene
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:56 AM UTC
filled up with enmity coiling up inside
The chest billows up
Thy want to heave it out
Then destined to tranquility
The claws scratch the flesh
Death gnaws on the remnants of longevity
Unless visions have a chest
To burst out into effervescence
Spontaneous sigh is kicked out of your breath
The clavicles sharpen, the eyes ogle ahead
The nothingness dilates
The flicker has no entrance for itself to adumbrate
For utopia has its own gore
To marvel over inside,
The plasters of bliss
Have guffawed over the gullible dusk
The gloom has left with a whisper
A muttering not to be heard
The relief has sewed on flesh
With the clouds coming out of thy outburst
The relief rebirths the serenity
Has been meandered, halted
For thou shed leaves
Making agony to clouds of no return
Utopic defiance,
the idiosyncratic anectodes
Stains of externalized innundation
For the literal existance of hope.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 7:13 AM UTC