until the words come clear
multitudes of monotonous marvels
I'm not confused anymore.
No matter the minute
No head to the hour
No matter the inhalation--
we're smoke.
Out the ashen waters of goodbye--
I couldn't drown. I wouldn't die.
Process
until the tide subsides
until the simple stories shift apart
falling to my frozen and forged face,
forcing from it features of failing and falling.
1 comment:
i need to process more.
Post a Comment