into my broken lungs,
I breathe shallow songs.
Forget me not:
The ceremonial I was when you left me there.
The parody of sound,
on a wave, where the lightning fades into retina and background clamor,
I know how easily all of that comes to her and those cut from her cloth.
A rickety grip,
on things you were never meant to have.
I make more waves in a bathtub alone,
and the shattered;
we all bathe in the same sense of what mattered.
Margin of error is slight;
the sincerest breath comes
in the dead of night.
I cave in, like a moist box,
where someone made a home.
Make way if you can, if you
understand just how simple
this dream is, how to meet it
where it lands. Mary makes
her way to…
collapsed wrecks of old paper hats.
Keep things tight on your skull
and maybe it’ll return to you
when you need it the most.
Digest this confession,
I confess it isn’t going to buy my Heaven
but I still wait
or maybe sit where I’ve always been and will remain forever…
a poet for no one…but me.
in my broken ears;
I hear every note of your song.
Don’t forget my rigors:
just what I record, when
you last forged a breath,
on a wave, where the light trades places with water and whispers alike.
She knows just how easy to make it come to her and those she cuts from her cloth.
A rickety grip
on the matters at hand,
waves in cherry bathtubs;
and the broken fixtures of what matters, “all that it takes,” she says.
Margin of error is mine;
the iciest breast come
I cave like a moist promise
you made in my hand.
A home I had when I last
came around. Mark me,
if you can, if it’s understood
how much this means to
me, and where to leave it where
I can find it again. Mal makes her
wrecks of old, stubborn stones.
To keep things solid
in a heart; and, maybe things come out right
Digest these words worth every denomination to buy a spot in Hell
but still I wait
or maybe I do nothing but live out my days like they’ve always been…
will remain forever…a lover of no one…but me.