Monday, July 14, 2014


Wrapped and rolling around in this cottony mess
In an eiderdown that scratches me, like the bony finger of an old maid.
"Double the occupancy, dear child, if you wish to get anywhere..."
The mold is molding, the stale; decayed decay
Rotting piles of flaked skin have been gathering in room corners,
Whispering to one another of their disdain;
"She let us go without even so much as a tickle"
Of the rounded, warm thumb of another...

What is left to be said, when the silence burns brain cells?
Awareness crawls over every square inch of human 'being'.
I'm pissed to know its private thoughts, bitching me out as if I have a choice.
Love is not worn for one night, and filed away into a folder of 'thereafter'
Love has standards that defy explanation, that seek to be met and exceeded.
Even in pretending they do not exist, that conscience of mine will fry me
Scarring that decay that rots on, in its soul mate-less state.

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