Last Words

LAST WORDS surly pain must ink the charred troposphere, mascara running down poet’s kaleidoscopic cheek. the breastplate clan have left the spoils weak. the rustical clang of the rusty second hand’s fear, felt with such clarity. the morbidity of the times, like bleakest clouds that form on the insides, the likes of which you’d not believe til now resides in your tortured mind and you leak it in rhymes. the poem might be good, really good, of Poe himself, but these are the last words typed out. you have angels in your sight, clearly hear the shout. nevermore court nebulous feelings in flames that grow. 3/7/2020