Scornfully resting in the bowel of a brown box
Truncating remnants of a dusty form,
These cobwebs elegantly outline inconsistencies
In the slanting warmth of ticking chimes.
A closet is not a makeshift bed,
A blanket is not a looking glass,
Yet counting up to an ever changing ceiling
Until solitude is unbecoming.
In the winter of the great recession,
Her arm fell asleep,
Wisps of frail affection and decreasing reach,
A frigid soup of her delicate screech,
Landing perfectly on a superstitious twitch.
I walked every day to her,
Sometimes close to the ground, sometimes further up,
Avoiding the patches of sun, but not the puddles left by rain,
And to scratch the rhymes of her forlorn evenings,
In the blank lamps of denuded carriages.
The fancy towards madness is a momentary delusion,
An attire for special occasions,
For a tongue appreciates a blade of blueberry,
Stations away from monotonous morality's clutches.
Would you lay out your eyes
For a demented jester in a pink pinstripe?
Or would you commandeer a blank holding
For the reality crawling from your insides?
The truth is at the end of a carpet,
Lined with black swans and chocolate trumpets,
Metals do not shine with invisible soles,
A teaspoon of morbidity before night.
A crass radio on the pavement,
Narrates sanity through a dilettante's shades,
I toss my tie near the hollow floorboard,
And chalk out the fabled line,
Today wasn't eventful enough,
Maybe tomorrow will push me over.
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