Monday, June 15, 2015

Involuntary Inhalations

Another broken summer;
another dream about a storm.

A colder wind
with every quicker mile –

a wraith screaming
sweet staccato

like shovels shattering
porcelain.

All the poetry
has wolves in it;

gusts of wind
like heart arrhythmias.

All the wolves
have poetry in them;

dreaming
like your brain
is still buffering.

If only the world
were sepia toned…

Ethereally sad
and gothic
and cold
and dreary

something nostalgically
depressing


in dead sepia.


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