he has golden cheeks and upturned eyes that skim bird's wings and silver linings, maple sap holding together his existence with his sandalwood skin and his childish hands. he uses run on sentences too much, he has scabs on his knees from falling too much, but he is alive and he breathes more than any other. perhaps this is what has become of our notions of living - as long as her chest falls up and down like a reversing waterfall, air spilling over her face like pools of meteoroid tears, she is alive. her hands may not spin together yarn over aged looms(she likes antiques), her brain is long gone, her emotions have dulled like ice skates from too much blood and sweat, and her heart is just another machine. but here she lies, in a bed with the illusion of dove feathers and caduceuses and peace, when she is at a war with her evaporating consciousness.
YOU ARE READING
paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
