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
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2014
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