dusty stones and rivers, of thoughts greedy, records
they hold no meaning, art curves and twists at the sight of you
as your shelves where a lover's
words screech to you and the lens of your camera, with photos
of friends and holes and smells that make you feel like drowning yourself, shutters closed
the epiphanies you so despertly yearn, each day, god provides you
and mountains stoop lower, and so life
it moves slower, crawling in the heat and weight, pushed to the bottom where all treasures already stolen,
sinking, you leave your love there too, and god pities you again, until someday in the morose tedium,
those eye bags that crawl the celling will avoiding truest desire
cusp the shiniest crystal, that embroids the waters in your bath and your tea, you spit in repulse as it tastes in the manner of your tears that you arched away from your mind, hid in the scarlet, solitary boxes of the dark bedroom,
hosting your thoughts and the dust and the likeness of your face which escaped to one of gold-framed mirrors, waiting to bespeak scarred fingertips and hunger-ridden eyes
