Once, it called.
In a dark and damp labyrinth I seek, finding but not searching. Soon these haloed meteors will pierce this frame and reel, dragging me to the devil’s carnival. Under the diode injected canvas is where the shallow pool will reach its deepest and where you can cry forever over forgotten skeletons of vine and steel. Weld our flesh to fly with sentient wings, they yell, and we’ll be swooned together. Yet from this bitter bed, no one wakes. Cast to an extinguished sun, two eyes are a hazy home to my bones, tiered with golden blood, but blind. Can you see how the man makes the darkness, misshapen like sprites on boiling candies? Can you hear what they say? Can you hear the song of my heart? It writes that, and it writes this. The eraser swept knoll lies guest for the final piece, but a tiny ripple in the diffident bath as that firefly flock dawns. And as the opportune flood crests, down the lead pipeline I go. Euthanize me behind an iron curtain; it pleases me so to galvanize the melding on this keeping metal floor. Free at last in fear of friend and father, you hear the final notes, chiming tiredly through the wall. Who has it cooed for? Who, who?
– It’s been awhile, but inspiration is a strange thing. Had to jump out of the shower and jot this one down with a mascara pencil on the bottom of a tissue box. :-)
Since writing this post Mr. P may have helped people, but has not within the last 4 days. Mr. P is a verified member, has been around for 4 years, 11 months and has 39 posts and 1,244 replies to their name.
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