black fog [1.19.2016]

my fingers are a dry creek bed, and my heart is the delta. scales derive from the forest floor, and we skitter like snails.
it flows. it does, out into a vast sea; currents etched in absolute filigree. you simply cannot quantify an open  grave lest gravity makes it so. 
love is the grave, and the grave is a redundancy. 
it's the distortion of severance that sends us, flailing (willing) into the mouth of sacrifice. cross this lifeless ocean of sudden damnation allowing my depth. choose a color, and make it stick. sing vowels. next to the one killing wont. 
let them spend. 

eyelash length [1.5.2016]

certain dreams should not extend beyond the length of your eyelashes. certain somnabulistic secrets should remain yours. they become lies, when you drag them from your slumber.

we mock our winters here, leaving only goblins of sarcasm for the spring to sweep up. stranger and stranger our seasons become, as the sun draws ever further from the point of no return. the zero point. yet you remember me, us, and the things we've done. the random acts we have committed. we mock our winters here, because we know that winters end, and we save our sarcasm for mulch. 

if only we could mine all the silver tongues, and sell them above market. a better world may be merely a matter of proper management.