The Dishes, who's master grew tired.
Unkempt the bed, wrinkled, feathered.
Pubescent chin hairs quietly long, and transparent,
like the shabby breathing of solitude.
The longing is palpable.
In the gorge; the arthritic ticking
of a crass, golden-stitched human heart
scorches the cells with life-bread.
In the gorge, dreams strike the tallest trees.
Faint are the whisperings,
long are the echoings.
In the gorge, blood pumps.
In the gorge, run wildebeest.
I used to only know one thing about you and that is that you have red hair Now i think i know a couple more things about you.
ReplyDeleteI wish I knew how to capture so much in a few words. "Like the shabby breathing of solitude."
ReplyDeletePS I stalked your blog hardcore my junior year. Might as well come clean.
So good. Hope I can someday write as good as you.
ReplyDelete"golden-stitched human heart"
ReplyDelete