crumpled papers and dotted lines
I try writing spite the abyss of dread that lingers But crumpled
paper and dotted lines are all I seem to offer Alas, my
trade and I are no longer
Should I assign fault to the vertigo which I call my mind? her I
know well, she tugs at me sometimes when the night is cold
Only God forbid like a drunken stupor she drags my ink cross
paper into the night
No but really this unknown ailment growing at my leg keeps at my
heart.
it’s like none other,
I face it and my decades of sage falter
You took my all yet you give me suffer
No greater mystery has life gone and offered this foolish sage
and the eternal cancer of love that is it’s founder
Have I wronged you? If then I beseech you.
Is it my frail humanity, is that the issue?
They’re crawling up my leg as I look to you for refuge now your
eyes refuses to meet mine?
When you told me you would always be here whenever they started
crumbling and the ink don’t seem to connect
Well I’m neck deep now, Like close enough to see the
crumbled paper and dried inks aren’t really dashes and dots You
see, the grip making love to my neck now I know too well with
blue emerald lips that taste like the cold air mid December.
Remember?,
that one that tugs at me sometimes when the night is cold?
Like a drunken stupor it tugs at me
Dragging ink all over
What am I to do?