45 Degrees to Nowhere

yellow chokes in the blueing panic. blunt daggers make their shallow incisions. the ladders wheeze and bend. like stale lies in the stubborn epiphany of regret. the seldom skin plays. like leaking buckets. heavy with too much nothing. the innocent poison of knowing them. trembling with cuts much deeper than intended.

the light left on. for the darkness to defend. the moment's blunt swords. make their creases. but fail to draw blood. it's the same old black all too familiar. it's the same one last puzzle pieces that always fails to complete the image.

the blossoming greys. the trembling reds. like some awful sunset/ this hollow prison we call flesh. the stubborn warden that is the skeleton.

the hours rage. small infernoes. flaunt the geometry of pleasure. in a watercolor of faces. the candy. scrapes out its path. in mealy apples and shouting pears.

the numbers strain to listen. as deaf gods pretend to hear.

the quiet alarms of lovers and addicts. swallow their thorns. and bleed their maps.