Foraging for the promise to see better days
The words a frosty whisper that leaves me wading for heed
Flat laying nicotine in the grim morsel, the dour pasturage.
That thought caramalizes, carbonises thickset with the crust of hope;
Blackened like the pans my mother harbors,
Let match eat away at until everything is smoldered and goddamned on that infecund fate
Bleated on in the nightfall, more when dawn beaks its seams on the stove
Heating the moka pot to overflow.
And I could see fire grow glaring;
A pyre from heaven
A golf with no corners thumbing the round of my chin,
Perusing the mouth that uttered the fool's sacred word in the rupture of fever
_ Mistaking the vermicular indisposition for the beam's weeds.
It burns me right ridding my head from the binging,
The mad hat I keep wearing;
The bow a trial of my making
But god how I love forlorness and writing in blue cursive !
How I shed better in the shrouded purr of the night !
I cannot stop_
Cannot wish for wanting better when I have sworn to only speak of truth
This body has been pared with the dead's pants,
Winded with the pea moss greening my girlhood termless
These bones hate sharing a room with my soul
They want a hall made of mahagony under the hide of the earth.
Devoted, this grave revery norms my priorities
Without the rarity to let butter icing, gatherings and retreats settle my lip into genuine grin
Under my ceiling clattering nightmares level their white, hot jolts and round to lull visions;
Me solemn and the recurring shadows
In a house that doesn't creak with the dinting steppings of the manage
None to bother or trouble by perjured concers
Blethering the turned lock;
Blind eyed, condoning the final douse.
The destination, skeleton of garden and time
Moored, my stockings soaked wet
Sailing on my pulse waning
Crossing the passage to the field that I held dear in memory
17/1/2024
