The Cost, an Impression of an Answer

The limitless wishes to break
pink light.
Remote, silent.

Do we know what we say when we speak?
blessing stains on the sheet.
The dream is on repeat.

I believe what is to be believed
set down in scars of language.

An etching made into something unrelieved.

Here I am again
draining the eclipse.

Burn what ever tongue you have left
and know that the promise of fools
is never kept in secret.

Fall apart at the drain,
all apart and
the drain collapsing.

Give me the anarchy pills,
the ones that dissolve under the tongue.

Tell me this will clear my thoughts,
nothing more than a ride home and
a divining rod of abuse.

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