Melancholy Blues On Creaky Floor of Dead Skin

the smell of her perfume is still in the air internal rolling hills with large stones give me blue relief it has been a few weeks and i am still on the sharp edge of last night melted snow falls from the sun's red eyes in the sky my pain worsens, and i know that i have just been fired several run on sentences ago i am a victim of the hypocrisy of my own advice to previous hypocrites nothing has been moved but the obtuse angle of my broken heart i try to move, but the oil to the tin is defiant like hypothermia taking directions i pray for her to come back, but only the devil answers attention provides her book of directions on wilted late bloomer time now the smell of her perfume is like poisonous furies singing teasingly to the smart part of my brain all i write now right now are poems devoid of solid rhythm my existence is nothing but a vapor far removed from former glory i now have a life sentence at a snail's pace with the tortoise winning at hare brained speed i slide down black hill mountain......white is the bloody fire of regret and shame