it sucks to see your faces, shining discs, glowing cheeks beaming back the Golden Sphere's rays, lined up in a row, pixel-stamped in a time when i thought we were all touched and i saw you were touched- how would you explain the butterscotch ribbons lacing the air from your raw throats, honey dripping from calloused finger pads, bowling suns on frozen oxygen lanes into the rows of pins before you, myself in the centre, if your hearts were not grappled with that Golden Hand? the plates all rusted in the cupboard's swollen mist and you fell over and away and Gold knows if we even really did try to shine a wick's pinkie flame in the holes you fell into, just a sliver of light, a finger to wrap your goosebumped steel limbs around, but for some Gold forsaken reason we didn't, and now your smiles are ironed on my screen- mocking medallions for our blonde failure.
YOU ARE READING
i'll never be a poet
Poetryand here's the pretentious proof an ongoing anthology of the poetry of nobodi.
