A silence to fill in.
There is truth in broken leaves.
The dry yellow cackles in the moments,
my space will lend to the mire of time.
Is there a promise of things to come?
A broken window thought.
Cut me. Where did your tears go?
This silence is wrought like iron intricacies woven into the chair. Sit in this silence. Immobile junkie. Silence junkie.
Wary of the scraping.
A word without fixtures.
Nailed to the wall.
I feel like some broken messiah, an out of order sign hung around the neck. Please leave a message.
Bread mirrors the flesh.
I was given the gift of things not being what they seem.
I can promise you,
a god of tomorrow,
the faith of a clean ashtray.