Saturday, July 9, 2016


The murkier colors leach
They know my mannerisms
The utility I keep
The dedicated investigation into the blur

When a better life lived
Would be in divorcing the spoil of tolerance- turned.

The lure of detritus be damned
The old sun-baked bones belong locked in their de-calcified ruin
While I roam among the living-
Out of place. 

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