partaking clockwork migrations,
bacilli of a tectonic world that crumbles slowly,
back to the frozen sweat of the void.
Black hole heavy logs
intersect at right angles,
where my mind falters and my skin knows not,
rabid titans' tug of war,
the phantom of order scared by destiny's scythe.
Fugitive patterns, dismantled by the wind,
wrote the story of a new dawn
on a cold prison wall,
lavishly eroded by the nails of left hands.
A sole beacon, in the distance,
a man's seductive blind rage,
spilled and scattered
to the heart rhythm of carrion calls.
I hang on dark clouds, disseminated
at the crossroads of free fall trajectories,
scribing a single word
on antique rotting bricks
from the ruin of a golden promise;
I'll espouse dusted bones in my flea bed,
upon a mattress of tentacles,
intertwined fingers - starving grubs,
shaping what used to be a perfect body,
long before the illusion faded.
starving grubs..
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