After a while the flies find you
Sinking into skin
Like love letters I’m waiting for.
I try my passive eye
With a lazy wind
Covering my imagination
While three ewes
Run circles,
Their heads down
Wishing for longer grass to hide in.
But my exhaustion
Just watches two blackflies
One on each wrist
Searching for that perfect place
To bite in
Just like the lover
I’m waiting to hear from.
My presence will outweight
My disregard here,
Just as the sun knows
It outweighs the wind
And there are no flies who care less.
Tag: wrist
Looking For Hope (day 1690)
From lines dragging down my wrists
I observed patience in a drop,
Dripping from my pointed forefinger
That rummaged odd bits discarded into
An old tin box.
I was looking for hope,
But instead found rusty nails
That left ocre upon my calloused tip,
Long ago since numb.
Dumping the remains onto the desk, I read out loud the words
That had been etched into the underside
By an uneven hand:
BOX 05 – EVIDENCE
These words sounded hallow,
And my thoughts once again followed
My wrists lines dripping
Onto the desk where an empty cartridge
Slowly rolled back and forth.
Just Fine (day 1587)
Left my memories
On an empty bank today
Singing an old song
And my heart bleeds on
Turned to a broken arrow
Shot through the dark
Loosely wrapped with a
Half written love letter
Leather upon my wrists
Empty and holding it tight
Got a wing on my mind
Baby, I’m doing just fine.
Hallows of my Skull (day 1200)
I carved your name into the hallows of my skull
Like a safety razor bringing back memories.
I was a Tiffany lamp casting butterflies
About the light pink empty walls of my mother’s wall.
Leaving the fly buzzing about my shifty hairs
I focused my every ounce on the skulls
Which stared back at me with unwavering attention.
It was here I lost my nerve to the valiant stork.
However, I did not float with green lantern’s cast shadow,
I dipped my soul below the line of respite
To gasp the warm air and feel the baby cacti
Rustle about closed loops of my hallowed skull.
Safety bird whistles cast dubious high pitched whispers
Towards my groaning and croaking ways,
And as I rested my wrists on the folded wooden crow
The sporadic clicking calmed my beating heart.