Wed, 01/28/2015 - 02:49 -- exhil


A hundred leagues of flame

To which I never held a match.

Comfort stings without the smothering gift of rain

But the catch is to collect

Without it slipping through the pain

Of burnt fingers.

And I’ve felt of that

Epigraph that projects the wind shears.

Scripted laughs have modded hugs,

Hinge fears.

My affections birthed an orphan

Subtly begrudge them while I produce endorphins

A story of motherly love

And matricide.

Forced by the proletariat

Of dictators, single-party marriage acts.

They should be frowned upon

Rejection is all but crowned among cliques.

Attitude may fit but

I have never received such gratitude.

Shuffle home, alone, shun and shift

the mind into lower gear.

Hear nothing but the




Another night gone for the void.

Immersion to forget about life

For just a little while longer.

Fight the dreading of a dawning day.

Invites. No.

Not plural.

Invite. I think nuts, like a squirrel.

Accept. Except the effects are still unknown.

Stutter. Another moment of clutter.

Phone. Yes. I accept.

Arrive in darkness. My sun has yet to rise.

On time, it could, but I do not wish for cold skies.

Teary eyes. Weary heart.

I may be badly hurt.

But it rose.

Blossoming true.

And I have never been happier.


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