Daisies and Clorox

This silent heave grows much too thin when this dreary night is ripped by transient stars and black fire. I bleed, bleed and rake like if I never belonged to a world now made from recycled apathy---piles of rusty acid in the rain--- where the god-forsaken screen of days are holed by mangled rays . Should I run on byways where fetal trees never lived, clipped by axes and formed as decorated beds? Even daisies grow under the tyranny of Ash Wednesdays riddled with Clorox from urban laundry. I tell myself, the air I breathe is soot and mud: my skin grilled in toxic regret: damn, how often can moments linger in July's charms when I'm deprived of the thrill of summer's lust in an age of ice? My eyes grow sullen, lonely... I stand outside waiting for some kind of fresh wind to taste my frozen tears. Desolate desolate me. I bow to this final amen of glory be , as the linings of my soul defrocks itself to feel the naked peel of virgin stars. Skat A's Slam The Slam Contest by nette onclaud