as the ambiance wades
into that catatonic,
These my siblings, nonetheless
caveats, about caveat
tears into the emptying
These bottles, as if
a chalice, hides the
But it is all, and
walk my friend, my
left brain, my brother
Yet and yet, and…
‘I’ age, age, til,
Suckling on the pen’man’s
fingertips, as the ink drips down
Down, as it seeps between the
topvy tursy of tectonic
shudders, being peeled off
like ceramic skin.
We scale the mounting
sands as they slip from
every grasp and we fall back.
And fall back
upon the sun-soaked sands.
The catacombs of our self bidden
catechism. Now they serve as our
Perplexed by the subtle perturbations,
words crackling across my lips
making these inklings pour across
Beside these ashen lines, diluting
the hearts congealed blood, dilating
each constricted thought.
Blindly we wonder passed our insight,
at our past born asunder
these their insides, shall the innards
read as woven, interlocked and entangled.
Another cataclysmic tale of amnesiatic
absentia, ostentatious in our preconscious
Flinging vase like tablets, into cuneiform
fragments, it just so happens that these
in each portion are hapless.
These our chamber doors; upon which none