An Assortment Of Words

The Front of the House

Flesh Vessel,

Shivering in static interference,

Your own complacent dynamo,

Pedantic pedestrian,

Sheltered from the ones who desire you,

Crouching off other's pleasures,

The one that dances crudely,

When pulled under a tedious flow,

And marvels at the glassy surface,

That shimmers as your sky,

You lay self conscious,

Potentially unconscious,

By the fish pond,

Shake the air,

And wait,

In silence,

To be found,

By those you don't want to dread,

By those that still pulse love,

Vision compromised,

As the frontal light extinguishes,

Dissolve into the patio,

At Ten Forty Six in the afternoon,

The drudged drawl of your delusion,

Is elongated with every seeping gaze,

Sights lagging and blending,

To conceive the wondrous pallet of a bland night,

Tears stifle on your porcelain bones,

The clatter of bottles scatters the mind,

And you know in the morning,

Your intoxicated heart to hearts,

Will equate to nothing more than faceless blurs,

Ravenous for recollection.