there is nothing silky black lacing around these words. how can I promise sexy when rain threatens to overspill broken lashes; a
3 o’clock sun brands a curled back gone into child’s pose.
pandora streams melancholia, jeffrey foucault radio has cat guts strumming, a low cowboy rumble roping harmony to the dying prose.
she promises wild adventure, but first you must follow her, clawing hell for an opening; depression becomes your mate; smothering any ember that may still remain.
how that clinical room still creeps under a halcyon haze, once green, now buzzing blue. innocently kissing death goodbye, not thinking it sucks away your life, too.
a wild howl, you know it well, trying to shake survivor’s guilt; if only because there is fear in walking alone. there is no sexiness in death unless you count the hunger that digs, yellow clawed,
into our frozen state; crystal dreams are teased by faceless eyes.
there is no filling the empty beast; confused, you seek lust
to feed the hunger, and call it love feeling a false control.
the scream continues building; a tornado rising off spring’s barren plain; innate survival has you begging anyone to take you home until the orange light reveals where the empty lungs still breath.
(sidebar: not the poem I intended to end the day with but I continued to read Cheryl Strand’s wild (see earlier post) and it struck a cord; ergo, I wrote this as my head swirled with the wind while the sun streamed across my back.)
…tomorrow will hopefully offer a brighter stream of words…