Nov 07, 2015 05:18
a cold cut silence creeps against the western dark
a myriad ... a montage, cartilage feigns as bark
drained upon defeat /it is/ just a passing phrase
mementos combed so stark they have become the marks of their own grave
but what's in a letter
roots: constant, in it
if I run but while it's writing
maybe we can dodge this hit
we wormed to the top shelf
heights and trees be damned
a single star skid the sky line
to remind of what was had
a million times a memory
a thousand halves displayed
a hundred paths for every longing
a dozen still left saved
if a blank space pul-sates
skips a step or a strikes a stone
does incanation beckon - \ley lines overthrown\
rendered in gears
it pines
inside (the mentored are the blind)
if yo u cu t it in to pi ec es
does it dream of being whole
if you saturate in darkness
do you think with empty h●les
skin said the static ʿ had fallen out ˒ the̜ reflection ̜ ˒ ʿ
in your eye
it's hot (for much) and cold to touch
don't ask but why
it smells, but not as such
it's skipping out of time
it sounds, on and off, of rust
feigning blood and grime
erroding what must turn to dust
the stardust still adjusts