"sinkholes" poems
A kid wakes up; tuns on the news
Sees the Texas police killing children again
What can I tell you? You the few
Does anybody listen here, my friend
So this kid he gets a brainstorm
Let's keep killing more and more
I know I can be just like them
I'll go to school; **** all my friends
And it's
Monkey See, Monkey Do
Inspiration is so cool
Monkey See, Monkey Do
I'm a killer, how 'bout you
Where are all the fearless leaders?
Ain't there anybody left?
No, not that kid from jersey
Mobsters really aren't best
All politicians are are sinkholes
Usurping monies for their parties
It makes this country one big stink-hole
You know behind their backs they're farting
They passed the rest of all the guns out
More More More is all they shout-shout
This is great for all the children
Who sit scared shit-less at every grade school
but it's
Monkey see, Monkey do
One good leader showed us to
Monkey see, Monkey do
I'm a killer, how 'bout you?
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC
Her eyes are sinkholes in a quiet, sleeping state
and I was a girl, lost and misplaced at twenty-one,
looking for love in infinitesimal spaces:
on her palm creases and chipped, ruby nails,
and in the blown-out ends of her lotus tattoo
I find myself tracing a secret,
at the spiked tips of her hair tamed by fairy lights
and on the slits of her skin — a rabbit hole of wonders,
I always fall like Alice in sworn careful tiptoes
and crash headfirst; a broken wishbone, a tainted wish
some habits you just can't quit.
like —
October and her obsidian eyes, and the sunless ways we kissed —
being lost and misplaced made sense for a while in the detached comfort
of her cold bed, colder hands,
warmth has become an oppression.
But this dalliance has always been a disaster waiting to happen
and I am a paramour, a memory, a face in the crowd
swallowed in a seismic fall —
and losing October has always been a disaster waiting to happen —
this bed, always a site of a losing battle
and I find myself in a soiled, torn dress,
lying helpless on the other side of her war.
Tonight, I light myself a candle;
maybe one day, I'll finally learn to run away from a girl made of disasters
and not towards her.
Oct 16, 2022
Oct 16, 2022 at 1:39 AM UTC
we all long to feel
something
whether it’s the electrifying fire of pursuit
or the breathless weight of fear
bitter feels better than clearly broken
baited by the false promises of
self-righteousness
our shards and sinkholes are clearly showing
pupils dilate and feet backpedal
uncertain of how to face real emotions or people
we bar the doors of our hearts and blast the radio
Static interrupts our
False peace is shattered
Broken windows taped together finally
Come
Crashing
down
.
.
.
.
.
.
the cool breeze gently tosses your hair
reminding you that it really is ok to feel
that the wetness on your cheeks is not a sign of weakness
that the heaving of your chest is not a sign of hopelessness
each deep breath supplies oxygen and release
shifting weight from the needy to the New
that promises a brighter day shines beyond this steely frame.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
the one constant in your life is you.
I am the tectonic plates, shifting and burying and grinding
changing against myself with little cares for trees and bushes,
I do not mind that my earthquakes destroy sheep
I do not lose sleep over my sinkholes, nor does the
fresh breeze disturb my actions- you
might think your life changes when someone leaves
or someone dies, or someone new comes
and maybe yes, it does, but you are really far beyond the scope
of one meteorite, one blast of destruction or creation-
this is no apocalypse. The world is different, now, but not really-
it still exists, and it still is called by the same name-
no matter what physical shifts occur, it's made of the same mass
of **** and dirt and rock and pure lava tossing in the celestial laundry.
What do you find there?
You are more unchangeable than you know
and yet, once you are changing- there is no stopping
the earth from folding in on itself and unearthing your new truth.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
the grit courage of trust
still too young and now, too old, to comprehend,
love~trust and all its secondary derivatives,
not extant on a plane of new bed sheets of
silk~linen tablecloth rectangularity
go into the park's garden;
black soil fingernail coating
awaiting, impatiently for you,
dig in direct hands ungloved
is it not,
sensual and yet gritty,
two coextensive sensations?
slip inside (you/me, me/you),
there is a razor's edge duality duty,
trust, serve and protect,
take and
handle with rough-care, for this our state of beauty
au naturel, the rush and the fall,
the climb and the conquering,
only to start again, each step, each rung,
coated with the
the grit courage of trust -
do you begin to comprehend?
trust is a bumpy landing on a glide path that is strewn
with potholes that can grow into sinkholes without
the grit of trust
the soles of my feet are a message,
gritty from walking
all-life, not just the edges,
is a two act play of roughening,
upon the limbs the things,
that carries us *****
but bares the wearing of
unkind touches of reality
working us over
why the soothing,
but not the smoothing
daily twice is the cream that
emerges from the grit courage of trust
even the vinery's progeny of great love,
grapes that must
embrace the wind and rain,
the wearing down tools of
the exterior that brings an acknowledgement -
do you begin to comprehend?
this is not an algebraic formulaic solution solvable problem,
this derived from dirt, access to accidental, the tongue and the nail,
the cracks upon the skin, that grow wonderful deeper, unfillable,
where the love gets in,
were the words are written and stored,
rough to the touch,
under the grit courage of trust -
do you begin to comprehend?
this grit is unbelievable beautiful
only a love po-em.
5:22am
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 10:09 AM UTC
I’ve been thinking about hands
a lot lately and how fingerprints are like
permanent, foreshadowing tree rings
etched onto our beings; I wonder if
the number of rings on my palms have any
correlation to the number of years I’ll live or
the number of years he’ll live or the number of
years that she lived. I’ve been thinking a lot about
life lines and heart lines
and if there is any stock to be found in palmistry;
I wonder how my fate line got to be
so muddled with my luck line.
I see my life the way a clairvoyant would:
in cut-up and choppy strips of film—
I should have seen the omens,
I should have read the smoke signals,
I should have recognized the cards.
Act One began on a waning crescent moon
and continued until its gluttonous belly
had swollen with light; I thought to
myself that craniums made of gallium
often melt the quickest, that blood filled
with plutonium often flows the slowest. I would
have given my body up to the pathologist free of charge,
would have let him dig his hands into my entrails for
some sort of divination, some sort of revelation—
I was never told to beware the Ides of June
nor the Kalends of November.
Act Two began with the birth of Jack Frost
and has been continuing without intermission for
the past four celestial cycles; I thought to
myself that heart valves made of sodium polyacrylate
often love the most, that sinkholes disguised as
fingertips often feel the deepest. He whispered
in my ear cliched words about not believing in
God, but how I made him feel blessed, and in
that moment I knew he was the oneiromantic being
that had been shadowing my dreams since 1996—
I guess you could say that, sometimes,
I believe in love.
There is an art to fortune-telling
there is an art to hands
there is an art to bones
there is an art to dreams, and over the years,
I have found them coinciding more often
than not. In my sleep, in notebooks, in
irises, in mirrors, in poetry, in small little sighs.
I do not know if I believe in fate or destiny, in
God, in auras, or in the Blood Moon Prophecy,
but I do know that I believe in you. I find myself writing
sappy verses and smelling your shirts and I do
not know if it is because I miss you or if it is because
I’m bored or if they’ve somehow
mergedintothesamething.
I’ve been wondering a lot lately about
where you show up on my hands; about where
he showed up and where she showed up. I want
to know which lines bisect and which lines fall
short; I want to know if the resemblance between
mother and daughter
continues into that of my palm lines. I want to know
if my life line matches hers and if my heart line
is even worth giving away—
find me in your crystal ball, make me
your sacrificed animal, look for my body
in the stars, and we will know that
it was all made to be.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
It took a hastily-made hangman puzzle
to **** you, a present-day friend
of mine to simply whisper
that three-letter word
as if she were restating the gospel.
Ironic, then, that as you were dying,
I felt an era-long noose loosening.
I remember finding skin pores
mistakenly labelled as sinkholes,
every confession warranting
a "believe me, we knew" after the other.
If you had spent any more time,
an indefinite amount of days
deciding to stay lurking
in the corners of the closet,
out there in the rafters
where no one could hear you
whispering poison into my gut reactions,
I might have sprouted
a kamikaze bloodline,
a raucous rhythm in the ranks
cackling louder with each year
of silence, each span of secrecy.
Although your plastic inflection
vanished with a collective
unlocking of the joints,
your cryptic sentiment still loiters
while my common sense is sleeping,
and I remember to repeat,
three times like Dorothy,
that moment I could only
be my true self on paper.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 4:40 AM UTC
you left sinkholes
in my head
large enough
to ensnare my
wildest, unfiltered
dreams. they're
now trapped in my
mind and lost in the
grey matter.
ashes to serotonin
norepinephrine to dust
ex nihilo nihil fit
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 4:59 AM UTC
I never called it ****
the events of the night the gin had made us hazy
and the drugs had us reckless.
The half hour you spent strumming me
like some pawn shop guitar
Suffocating me in the sheets
which were covered in the filth of your former lovers.
I never called it ****
The way your hands had rudely ripped
my previously untouched skin
and your mouth devoured my innocent lips.
Never thought much of the way you had told me to be quiet
while I whispered for you to stop
because I'd never done this before
and it was painful
and I wept.
Because you had warned that I would wake the others
and I was embarrassed
and you had made me *****
I never called it ****
Never let the repetition of your phrases sink in too much
as you told me it was fine
and it was okay
that I'd like it.
I never thought too hard.
Because you moved too fast
and the room was spinning
and I gave in to waiting for it to be over.
And when you had gotten too tired of hearing me whimper
and my pleading had become obnoxious
you sighed an angry **** this"
and stomped off to the bathroom to finish yourself,
after commanding I put my clothes back on,
And find somewhere else to sleep,
I stumbled across your ***** basement to where the others slept
and collapsed hiding silently in the sinkholes of your couch,
Listening to your grunts before the light came on and you passed out
avoiding the stains of my youth on your sheets.
And I never called it ****
In the morning you drove me home
making little effort to hide your disgust in my failure to get you off
While I looked out the car window at all the houses I had grown up next to,
None of which looked familiar any more
attempted to ignore the stinging of the poisonous scars you had left behind
pretending that my body wasn't covered
in the scratches and bruises of your insincere actions.
And when we arrived outside my parents' house
after an eternity of painful silence
you didn't speak merely
grunted at my departure
and I snuck quietly through the front door to the shower
where I scrubbed until the marks from your fingernails
became indistinguishable from the skin I had rubbed raw
until it bled
trying to convince myself
that I had eliminated all the remnants of your scent
and the dirt from your actions.
But I never called it ****
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
I have a light under my concrete
For others
It is fatally luminous
So it must be contained
I relegate rays to the darkest depths
So no light may exit
But then you walked on my blacktop
And cracks started to form in my road
Light began to escape
You were fascinated
I was terrified
Because the more you traversed my pavement
The further my road split
Brilliant flashes with increasing frequency surfaced
Your curiosities were piqued
Mine were plagued
By what lies underneath
And when it would blind you
I tried to warn you from inside my cocoon
You said you'd purchase sunglasses
You never understood
This light
Shatters glass like Stone Cold Steve Austin
It's intensity is a stunner
It may be the Sun itself
But you insisted on continuing
To travel down this path
As models import wrinkles
Potholes become sinkholes
Fears were realized
Senses overwhelmed
Skin burned
Blackened
Into something unrecognizable
As all signs of life fade
I'm stranded on a crumbled road
With only sightless cadavers to lead me home
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC
The Navigator stands
at the top of the hill,
a spotlight illuminating the fog,
looking for a direction.
The stars are gone,
another moonless night,
all he has is his intuition
and questionable insight.
And so the dance of change begins
Moving outward
while moving in
Like a blind man at a drive through atm,
wondering how he got there,
listening for a sparkle
looking for an animal spirit in the dark.
There are cliffs and caverns
sinkholes and canyons
along the way
He's been known to fall
and rise again -
while heading towards the river
The Navigator, he is an expert
on moving in the darkness
looking for that one flash
our lives on display
The Navigator, he knows the signs,
sometimes right sometimes wrong
The paths have many directions to follow
But with the first step
all other paths
fade away.
Decisions are made
The Navigator, he has his day,
his way.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
She quenches her thirst with
The tears of the inhabitants
Of sinkholes, claims them,
And gives birth to them anew.
Exhaling the winter wind, the
Scalding embers of December.
No one knows her name,
But you can confide in her.
Share your disarray, she will
Rectify you with her rhetoric.
She's seductive like suicide,
While I am as hung as a noose.
An irresistible demon, a potter
Shaping your every desire, a puppeteer
Manipulating the strings attached to your limbs.
Hailing from the same realm as Shang
Tsung, mortal anguish empowers her.
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
The floodgates
have opened
and the tide is high
the dam has burst
in explosion
of tear-bombed third eye
saltwater rushes
culling dark demons
from the deep
the most buried
of creatures
awoken from sleep
viperfish and tube worms
vampire squid
twirling their tentacles
to summon the id
squelching up
impulse
from sinkholes of mud
primal instincts excavated
from tombs
of slick crud
Deep-seated fears
have been beckoned to play
to disregard tears
take resistance away
and while blown over
by this twisted abyss
she remembers a flicker
of the shadow of bliss
and like a mermaid rising
up towards surface
blue heights
she grasps at the cirrus
leaking tendrils of light
pulling up hand by hand,
in sea-tangled vine
a vague sense of sweetness
flushes out brine
and when she breaks through
the surface,
her heart like a sieve
she finally owns it-
the power
to
breathe
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 7:22 PM UTC
In USA,
There is a presidential election fight,
Well, everything seems to be alright,
It might be alright, everything seems tight,
Sometimes, I dream of a red sky,
The earth is cracking,
I'm slowly dancing
On your sweet love floor.
Turkey
Sends bombs for free into Syria, on the other side,
Well, it seems that nothing is more important than having pride,
When Syrians in Turkey need to hide,
I've never dreamt of a sky so red,
The earth is cracking,
I'm slowly dancing
On your sweet love floor.
The Greeks
Don't want to sell to Canadian consumers their gold,
Well, it seems that in Canada it is very cold,
Why is it so cold in Canada all the time and the gold isn't sold?
I really dreamed of a huge red sun,
The earth is cracking,
I'm slowly dancing
On your sweet love floor.
The world
Is waiting for a new shift of magnetic poles,
But, instead of this, earth makes gigantic craters called sinkholes,
Smart money makers lose the remote controls,
I really had a multicolored dream,
The earth is cracking,
I'm slowly dancing
On your sweet love floor.
Much more protesters
Want to change their lives and their presidents.
To feed their kids, they work 12 hours per day for a few cents,
It's something to think about, when life has no sense.
I dreamed of a world having a little pink,
The earth is cracking,
I'm slowly dancing
On your sweet love floor.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
"Tread with caution
Construction ahead"
The sign passes behind her
Lost to ecstasy and joy
She crashes through
Brush and thicket
On dream-paved paths
To where the little white cottage stands
Spit-cleaned and rag-polished
Waiting
"Caution-sinkholes
Beware fragile earth"
She slows her pace
Bouncing slightly
Till the ground caves in
She leaps as earth sinks at her heels
Consuming her spirit
Leaving dirt on her knees
And the little white cottage stands
Cobwebbed and dust-lined
Waiting
"Beware- cliff ahead
High tide, rough waters"
She approaches warily
The dirt still caked
To the soles of her shoes
But ignores the sign
Arrives unprepared
The cliff comes as sudden as a drop
Land to air in seconds split
Frozen water breaking her fall
And the little cottage stands
Stone-cracked and rain-streaked
Waiting
"Danger- falling rocks
Avalanche prone zone"
The water drags at her fingers
As she crawls to the shore
Huddled under the cliff
Overhang so close
She can smell the mossy wear
Water-clogged she fails to hear
The rumble of stones
Till they crash to the ground
And the little cottage stands
Foggy-black and death-caked
Waiting
"Construction Site-
Building in progress"
The stones crash against her
Down to the sand
She falls to her knees
Pinned by the boulders
With the weight on her shoulders
She remembers the signs
But wishes she remembered sooner
And the water takes her
As the little black cottage stands
Time-worn and wind-torn
Waiting for the future
Never to come
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
**rust and ichor
veins are lacerations
and ruptured
seams
no idyllic countryside
sinkholes and lava
from the skin
to the bone marrow
from the ribcage
to the deepest
HEART
the earth is bleeding
edged with scarlet
a septic wound
her nature spasming with
her groaning
whales die from their
weeping
sea life washed ashore
in their hundreds
of thouands
birds fall from the sky
white doves become
black as ravens
oily and ravenous
mass extinction
honey bees
will be
no
more
to
pollinate
anything
the earth is bleeding
war's bitter wine
seeps from every pore
of mankind
hatred the cup of
the world
the grail to be drunk
deeply
til tomorrow is
sated and
there is no longer
any blood
to
be
spilled**
soulsurvivor
(c) 6/10/2015
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
When you met him he was charming
and had a shimmer of silver to his
smile. He knew what to say before
your brain could construct the words.
And this young man didn't believe
for a concrete second that chivalry
is dead. He was suddenly everything.
But it started to change, as everything
inevitably does. He told you first how to
pursue a career. And then your closest
friends weren't good enough anymore.
You made a ****** ritual sacrifice here
or there. Old connections had to go, keep
the monster contained.
He sunk his tendrils deep into the non-photo
blue sediment of your mind. And the man
you called your own was tweaking the serene
oceans of your psyche subtly and oh so surely.
You inadvertently let him shift your beating
heart into a writhing chaos engine for love,
whatever love means anymore.
And he push, push, pushed you ******
into deep sinkholes you've never dared
even tread near before. You are falling
forward and back through the singularity of
space and time, feebly holding your hands in
front of your face, trying to protect yourself
from a 20,000 foot fall.
Stopping your descent isn't a valid option.
Halt a moving body so suddenly it will snap
its neck. you are quickly approaching terminal
velocity. Anyone who could of caught what
is left of you was gone long, long, long ago.
There is no coming back from such impact.
It's mathematical.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 11:28 PM UTC
I long for a means coalesce like particulates in suspension and not coagulate.
Into a monstrous scab.
I hate to make cheloid tissue of this deadly grouping.
Id **** to be whole by finding a pairing.
The obstruction to human progression,
The roadblock of progress,
We are merely all platelets in this wound.
These free thinkers are the only.
Thing. Holding in all of the blood of the truth in man's march.
The moon was the beginning the end is the sun.
To a fusion of the atom,
And the birth of our flux.
To the birth of our achievement,
When we let loose the wound.
When the inside has healed and we aren’t bandaging the fumes,
Of a gaseous existence to penetrate everyone’s lungs,
With the stillness of thinking and the spirit of calm.
Currently.
We wait in the basement.
Sitting for our,
Plan.
To strike.
We will strike the match that flames the fumes of human resistance and build a castle of knowledge, hope, science, and destroy the sinkholes for progress.
The things that deplete our resources,
And the fire in our eyes will stab into every bastilles walls.
Of evil.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
There is a road
a narrow path
with darkness ahead
darkness behind
flashing memories disappearing
neon traces trailing.
The seekers of wisdom
a flash light in hand
darkness ahead
a Diogenes searching
for
wisdom and a wise one
knowing
this way lies madness
that way lives love.
Behind is birth
Ahead is death.
Pitfalls
Skyways
through the sinkholes
the marshes
deserts
the mountains
the ocean too.
Periods of walking alone
Periods of walking with you
Blindness fills our eyes
the dark it is
always all encompassing
as we feel our way along.
But you are the light
your life is that
small shinning
flash light
illuminating
each moment
of our searching lives...
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
fingernails
through the slits
of borrowed garments
brilliance
leaks from sinkholes
riddling your forearms
earth touch
in your tendons
tarred feet to sync
with astral chords
and soil chains
-
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
In USA,
There is a presidential election fight,
Well, everything seems to be alright,
It might be alright, everything seems tight,
Sometimes, I dream of a red sky,
The earth is cracking,
I'm slowly dancing
On your sweet love floor.
Turkey
Sends bombs for free into Syria, on the other side,
Well, it seems that nothing is more important than having pride,
When Syrians in Turkey need to hide,
I've never dreamt of a sky so red,
The earth is cracking,
I'm slowly dancing
On your sweet love floor.
The Greeks
Don't want to sell to Canadian consumers their gold,
Well, it seems that in Canada it is very cold,
Why is it so cold in Canada all the time and the gold isn't sold?
I really dreamed of a huge red sun,
The earth is cracking,
I'm slowly dancing
On your sweet love floor.
The world
Is waiting for a new shift of magnetic poles,
But, instead of this, earth makes gigantic craters called sinkholes,
Smart money makers lose the remote controls,
I really had a multicolored dream,
The earth is cracking,
I'm slowly dancing
On your sweet love floor.
Much more protesters
Want to change their lives and their presidents.
To feed their kids, they work 12 hours per day for a few cents,
It's something to think about, when life has no sense.
I dreamed of a world having a little pink,
The earth is cracking,
I'm slowly dancing
On your sweet love floor.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:07 PM UTC
your eyes send signals forecasting a tremor.
so i pull you close and kiss the cracks
on your parting lips tonight.
broken glass and land slides,
tidal waves and ruined city,
you taste like catastrophe
waiting for a trigger.
but no, i am not complaining.
your mood may change like tectonic plates,
drift apart and rearrange
but never will i fear
your unpredictable seismic waves.
for this is a part of you
i have accepted long before
my heart began beating your name.
you may shake my world to pieces,
rive it with aftershocks and sinkholes,
but for now let's turn off the lights.
let me lull your troubled fault lines.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
Wading through the mire and sinkholes of contingencies
I move gingerly, quietly, gasps merely whispered
upholding propriety and pragmatics of
housing association bylaws
enough to make me consider mowing my own lawn
but humans are human, co-exist as they say
And although I detest your husband's cigarettes
I am quite sure blowing smoke back
down the air vent would not be as effective
as your decibel oblivious obnoxious self, imitating my lustful voice
I am a reasonable woman, truly a lady, preferring mature consultation
But the fact is, honey, if you imitate me again
when summer air re-invents lingerie season
the two of you might want to go outside for that smoke
because you haven’t heard anything yet
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
Girls like me are taught to treat our bodies like metaphors, we are taught that we can only be desired if we are oceans and hillsides, if we are Septembers and sinkholes. They paint us, all sunset eyes and nicotine, hoping to color us in with their washed out words, so that maybe we can mean something. We are taught to fold into ourselves, to shrink our waists and our voices, that being small minded will compensate for the space that we take up. We are taught to apologize for the space that we take up. Girls like me have to be thankful to the stranger who comes and dares to want us, as if we’re only worth our weight in love poems, as if he’s doing me a favor with his wandering hands. Girls like me fill our heads with shipwreck and sorry’s, hoping that this time it’ll be different. That this time, for once, love might be blind. That this time, for once, we can be enough. Girls like me are afraid of being enough. Because maybe if I think of my body as anything more than a graveyard, your ghost hands will find somewhere new to rest.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
Last tendered lifeline sought as battered psyche under your bellowing wave rips
Final act of penance remitted from bleeding, parched lips
Hemorrhaging from bandaged sorrows that only strerile soul doth eclipse
A hollow stare from deserted strand harboring the wreckage of two, desolate ships
Posture now callous bearing the scars of your shallow, superficial preening grips
Disheveled hair, limp dividend declaring inferior complex that from each emotive strand drips
Pale, drawn face; vessel sunken from draining sinkholes as our relationship dips
Pensive smile revealing the fault line of each strained shock as chasm deeper slips
Shuttering ears filtering out the rehearsed, rhapsodic notes of your telepathic scripts
Token, parting gesture from arrhythmic heart erasing each beat as your radar blips
Aug 14, 2011
Aug 14, 2011 at 10:08 PM UTC