my tears taste of orange syrup and two long hard days of suffering, under a sky that stretches further than i could reach, one could be decieved that i was in a cage.
all the pages are glued together with a sticky red friend of mine, who disguised as a smile, left me in an empty reservoir for three empty years, in the lesser times, he appears the enhanced hero, though i vowed never to return.
i held a jewel in my fingers- and went to sleep-
the day was warm, and winds were prosy-
i said “twill keep”
i woke- and chid my honest fingers, the gem was gone-
and now, an amethyst remembrance is all i own-
EMILY DICKINSON
The tiny cracks on the large standing pottery before me seem so vague in the light that is a still grey with no breath in the surrounding.
This burning ciggarette feels like my last, the thought that it isnt vows no clearer.
In all that striffle a pit in my mind, the same meaning reminds me of the cause, the vain is triggered, bursts but never devours.
I store it like a lesson in the blood that grows thicker, with the memory bearing more comparison to a prison.
