Crepuscular sadness at epochs in an epic
that doesn’t seem to embody the word.
A raindrop is a tear to God,
a flood to an ant,
but an infinitesimally small detail
in the setting of this story.
Eyelids rise with the day and
fall with the night to no end
and with no end in sight.
Upon the close if you look close
enough everything can be found in seemingly nothing.
If you’re a bull you don’t frequent china shops.
Morgues are more your venue.
Whether your lips are loose or sewn shut.
You get mad. You scream at me.
I remember that I exist. I run in place.
I fall awake.
Sleep is the dream I have.
You are a freshly coined collection of morphemes,
fresh off the mint of your falling breath.
A neologism on the dark side of a glass prism.
Newly transfused blood flowing through the heart.
Blood cells with bars incarcerating words yet to meet their definitional soulmates.
You are on the tip of my tongue but lost in my mind and never to be found.
Published at Scarlet Leaf Review and Thought Catalog