Tuesday, November 8, 2016

...fumble...dig in

Poured, to give meaning
Branches, purifying this space
Opened lungs bask
Flexing for the crawl space to widen
To retract toxins from dust-laden air
Clung to leaves, coated in movement

Intrepid, the mystery continues
The conveyor belt of manipulations
Stretches long into the night
Words, fumble and dig inwards
Punching the gut instinct to distract
To twist the girth of truth unfolding
Into something more stoic,
More stout-
More stifling.

But I want the peace of answers
Of truths thrown into space
Where the greenery of my silent neighbors
Have filtered the spoils and taken them out!
That must be the order of these days-
To filter if filter must impose itself,
But to filter-free the damning deposits
That waste time on static distortions
And cloud the brazen lyre from authenticity.

Squelch. Squirmed. Squeamish.
Pushing through puckered seams
To point out the boldness
Bursting, with signature style.
Indelibly you, says one half to the other
Own these hours, smeared with your sound,
Your stripes, your machinations.

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