plaaate
fires to kill
spirit down into a something revolting
stinking, molding
and your ambition's fueled by the spurrings of the physical,
visual cues are only there to quake the faith into minds.
rickety boes don't show the
honing splinters, ticking lower
into inner dank cavities
split down the back, a rack of
ribs that live in spinal condos.
it was really cozy so long ago,
huddling in the dark,
curtains,
in public like I'd always wanted but
really just a strong first step
(to which there was no second)
and we arrived in the dark as we
still are.
up in it, thoughts are contagious
and not fleeting if they're also tied
and woven into everything,
you don't realize it but
they're where normality is,
all wrapped together
unfortunately.
I find my light by the
swingshine
and in it you can dance like the moths
the little fireflies
or slump down and out of the
into the
dark