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