(no subject)

[nonsun_blob_a]

this fractured cup holds the wine of my race
sinking directly into the crevace of my blood stream
it'll pour out from the leaped-steps that descended god's face
which, if anything but sculpture, will forget what it's seen
like a shipwrecked sailor who only dies in his dreams
well we've all been

i find your hair in the loneliest of places, locks of conversation that rest between pages of books,
the second between scenes, the blink between looks
exhaling tired letters until their livestock meet my overfished hooks

the sand is running, saguaro
but i won't live to see it's incestuous rush upon the shore
only the succulents will drop their leaves into the detritus tomorrow
these misled locksmiths will drop their lockpicks and leave their breathe outside the door
they came running home when the distress call was just a dial tone shaking in the snow
angels on islands begging them not to go

considering the fuel you threw on it, i'd say this fire's more memory than motivation
it could be a biome-wide flood that, through sinking it, saves the ship
whether or not i set sail from a sea of sand,
your maps won't describe the port
or the legend hold the key to the locomotive's door
though your kiss will part the water