160 DegreesA Poem by Perdition wip If I could strike up one track of lines running long - I would craft me a little staleness of mind…an adobe-less walls
where “Nothing” could grow its wilderness. Where flaws could float down in color their beautiful doors of
my collected uncertainty. I would raise the mangled mounds of mesh and metal fangs to
meet me at the gate then dive, like a parentless child into its infinite maw. I would rip out the rump over our masses. Burn in Moses like a fire of want, if I had but a simple
crawl. Root past my yaw, strapping on to a drifting branch of young
lunged primal audience. No towns lingering in the outturns of approval or the black bagged vials of identity,. No termite souls whaling under the crowned green baron nets;
only rabid screams of the river, passing by in a bank-blue human condition. I would build a time to a raft out of melting straw and ‘twine
my limbs with acidic vines to hold high my fears. Grow dahlias from the waters
of my eyes and grind a mighty rain from the leaves under the belly of the
hippo city; my fingers slipping under water, waving like blades of wheat to our circling degrees.
Five, last time I wrecked. © 2014 PerditionReviews
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Added on February 6, 2014Last Updated on February 8, 2014 |
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