Writer in San Francisco, CA
wandering thoughts scattered across
a decadent table of rotten apples, i lift a holy grail and
drink dreams, swirl and travel down into spiral tunnels in-
-to subconscious deconstructions of self, am i me, am i
you? am i conscious dirt or something else trapped
in flesh?
Liked this poem? Try these:
slip into something a little more suffocating,
let water seep in and pull you down into
the darker abyss into the endless night,
a hollowed whale cry echoes out to
cradle as you sink in deeper
and deeper into the quiet.
Whispering leaves shiver, spine cracks under foot
and the wind whips up the crumbles to batter them
against the gray stone Victorian that sits grandly on
the street. Another fall, another winter, spring, and summer
when the fog presses firmly down, the fine mist swirls
and covers whispering leaves that shiver in the wind.
owl spins, eyes linger on bush, on stone,
on dark crevice. a rustle. eyes bore, a softness
presses under feathers as the owl lifts, to
glide to snatch up a plump gray mouse.
lips crease, to fold into a snarl as the words shatter
and pierce his heart. glossy eyes slick and sharp
burrowing into his. flawless, imperfections visually scarce
a beauty but the words
they cut and marr at his soul, rupturing the bliss, the hope
he ached for. a quip, a spin on the heel, and she’s off.
blood trickles down his chin; why does broken glass taste good?