Substance bleeds in like foreign sunlight no ghosts fill the ashes the former vast like diamonds. Faces haunt the windows as they were a gazed fixed eternally on the well in chests now nostalgically asthmatic. Uphill the climb to be a fixture of decay as the neck ties, turn into coast lines, then into skinned knees on bike rides racing towards the scene of crimes long atoned for.
Elegant the waltz of careful comfort as fear escapes the ridges of wounds self inflicted. The ankles of the heart perpetually sprained over and over as the fingers trace the way back home around the lip of the same cup of coffee. That’s evaporated into the eye lids that never open in this haunted house there is a depth that is carved out in this man like a key in a book that no one is allowed to read. It’s kept on a shelf in a house constantly being demolished in rubble built upon rubble.
There is a sovereign hand that peels back layers refined in justice for this sprain. Contoured is the hollows of this hand as the dream is allowed to properly decay. Grey morning skies tremble in as grace flumes around in the air in the front porch light. Unwilling to leave as sweet conditions illuminates the inward image as the glass breaks. The inward sinking is properly buried as the dim look one gives a burial at sea inside a fresh meadow overlooking a patch of trees, grave, and a well. No longer does one linger in the same dead end streets that promise promises with its sunsets, and romance. There is no longer hair styles that can tame the desire of where we are going. There is is just a soft voice in white that leads on.