blood will be spattered on the wall
by the second paragraph
with a broad brush…
before it dries
the light without you stays within…
tired and worn out rose hips and tulips
glow in the brown aftermath of playtime
around a kiss in the sand box…
hard and cold now
remembering when
the totemic twist fetishistically touched
its shadow lips with a number…
telescopic tred walks into the trunk of a tree
with gray hair in its vice…
and the relics of recall stitch the pink fingers
with Braille…
1 comment:
Man I wish I could write like this. You can really feel your words, like really feel them.
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