Saint
I have been at a loss for cumbersome syllables
And dislocated octaves,
Which tumble in lazy metaphors from lips
Smeared with cheap makeup in declarative shades
Of fire engine spectacles, muddy rouge,
Polluted sunset pink,
To mask a cadaver's stitches, preventing
My Heart's restless peaks from bursting forth
Into senselessness.
Where have cognitive examinations flown
Off to, cradling air with hollow bones-
With the flowers, or the cowboys.
Lucidity snatches at April's
Lionlamb air;
I catch falling words on your tongue, like
Raindrops.
Strip my world, proverbial paint thinner
Peeling pseudo-realistic wallpaper
In sunburn fakes,
Of all falsities I've shacked my wrists with.
Paint over my
Red crayon scrawled morale
With You.
"Saint"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
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