so are the stills on the sill

 

 

render your heart in a bed of quicksand...

filling your lungs of a hotter moment

unyielding to desires standing in front of your face..

bliss of cloud which passes its fortnight quite soon,

too soon to finish its eloquence,

privy and surreal wait for a new tomorrow

promising a new compromise which befriends

even the most quisical sort...

how old the passages on my book have turned..

and when in their moments seem most atune to tweek

anew.... they are dismissed and bled.