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Sensing the atmosphere for omens. Signs of impending, cusp and verge. I ping and curl, scrape to drudge up- internal program and hit send and hope for good vibes return "not the end." I have become a lightless diode. A buzzing lamppost in the neighborhood of victimhood and it's backstreet node. A useless burnt out core in off mode. A robot running over castles premade in the sand. I try to read between the lines, decrypt the Oracles plans behind, the fulfilling jinx it has in store foe me. Stars aligned. A telepathy mainlining, a pulse headlining freakshow. Of kinetic belonging, or safety net I used to abide in long ago. When the world had justice and overseer and endearment- enthronement-thoughts of the faithful. I long for the ether of a hint, graft me in with your marrow, splint, in the know. Don't leave me high and dry, Alone and crooked, wicked bent. Odious clouds and signature mounds. Terra-blyte your foretelling, Either a warning or a telling of blue skys color turning. Ether, of any which way the wind blows in my mind. A private message, rather stalking., as it stands a topography cone of cold stand. Your best made plans, for me for the tasting, cast of shadow. forecast, menacing. Bound to be set in stone, found rather mocking. Injected in-guest-guessing an after the fact thing, for me. You read my fear as I fill a prescription of my self fulfilled prophecy, rolling the bones with fate's hands. I hear there's power in the knuckles, the joints, the suggestion of glands. Just. Faint whispers, whisking by warning-arrows with no flame- no spark burning for me. Just a whisker filament, fading to the darkest sharade of gray, hit parades. To shade my own guilty sense of judgment. Of putting my trust in false things. With their superficial gradient of monochrome; night rainbows, overlooking Styx river country home aside a brick road leading all the way to Thunderdome. My sonar/feeler brain finding it's way in the dark like a worm in the dung. In someone else's element. With no taste for mental or spiritual atonement. Or the taste of Hope's spark on my tongue.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

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