Stained laced lines consecutively intersect
picked and prodded skin.
An artist's arm is only as good as the hand it's attached to,
but too much of a good thing can only become greatness.
A day away from a dream seems a bit extreme as steam ships pipe.
A frozen hell lays looming over the horizon, but my sky lights only see crystal clear sunshine.
To teach a dream and live a mystery without misery
ever present failure pacing on the other side of that six foot iron gate.
Dragons call for my arm as buckeyes bloom on the backs of broken, swollen hands.
A monk's story told in urban prose versed without reason, but caught between a finger and click.
The buzzing of mechanical bees flutter with porous joy
as they drink from the dementia of triple black and relaxed nectar.
With every sting,
pinch,
and
bite
No pain.
No fight.
I always wanted to be purple when I grew up.
Who knew it was possible.
Roads aren't made to be traveled,
paths are made to be blazed.
Stars are made to shoot
and
rainbows built to fade away.
No comments:
Post a Comment