Dinosaurs in the Waltz

I was talking to the ceiling in quiet sighs. The girth of memory narrowed by the coax of shadows dancing inside their jail. The laugh of trees lost in years too profound for flesh to understand. The returning of life year after year to dead limbs that somehow learn to be born anew winter after winter.

Conversations like formaldehyde. Embalming every word we've uttered. The graveyard between sight and touch a dense firing squad of drunken cupids. Cooing brightly as their wings are plucked.

I was asking my questions to the walls. As they paced amongst the shadows the sunset had drawn. In tiny wars to small to see. Those lives we thought were ours dressed their Hiroshima's. In high heels. In the pins and needles. Of dead skin awakening.

And the walls they just waited for the keys to skip their ropes. Squeeze another god from the bandage. The cold stroll of life drooling through the skin's careless mini blinds. Caught in the stamina of its wax. As it drips down the taper. The slender in a fleeting beauty. The dose of a boken heart. Motivation enough. To chagne how I feel.

About the dinosaurs in my bed dancing their last tango.