The Form is off.
I don’t write like I should nor would I lie.
much a tragic wasteland, more direct rain. phantoms inside, upon a dream, pain
gnaws like rabbits. the heat races in tides.
days become dragons, lunging at brains.
most dangerous, sly, flaming schisms—
undo, unmet, unrequited time, made isms,
into regions, sunk inside, washing flames.
I touch asphalt the sidewalk is melting—
a canto is a bird, fever is passion, more
burning into metal, more a sour core—
trying in sharpness, unspent ink pelting.
so sweet to visit
aesthetic shrapnel;
those eyes play piano, those feelings are
coarse, many sudden bars, a silent scar—fretting
cities, interior made gravel.
torn by jasper
roses the sun into a fit—
talking outside of
spheres, so unknit—
reformed in essence,
no one relates—
moving faster,
mulling over gates—
sure faith in
diamonds, gems speaking,
certain to adore,
more tragic sleeping.
