sink like a raindrop, parlay like a god

on a gnarly evening
with lights by my window
and a boring font beside me
and the tapestry woven
so thick and beautiful
sonorous and plush
breaths in perfection
the id the enemy
with a password quickener
in the fingers
so the mind may stare
at the lights and dream
of less perfect moments
for trudging through fonts

wafflemaking

steepled in the
criss cross lines of its namesake
hobbled by the paralysis of choice
painted to sunset paved with decision
disparaging of the human condition
of the immortal self
worn with stoic human experience
suffused in the dogged belief
that life is not enough
that tomorrow will be better than today
and so, today is past
but for those who know
tomorrow doesn't exist
and fear is futile
the golden waffle is impossibly sweet

scars

are not exactly how
we might imagine
they are stickier
mired in long forgotten
garbage filled with desolation
futility with a dash of venom
they are the courage of the few
with nothing to give
nothing to lose
they are a slow moving escapade
from the clinging branch
which is the last resort
between you and the void
the glue, the unravelling
the stillness and the wind

dystorporation

it will take
more than wind and storm
to wake the Nightmare Child
lost in a dreamwalking sequence
slick action slaction
without consequence
an insulated soul
sparkling like granite
underwater
under the sun
far too many toothpastes
for one teeth
leaps of faith
that are picturesque
and magnificently virtual
justice and order
carefully divorced
from each other
with joint custody
of emotion
money before sermon
before action
living in an age
of Numbers and Names
that never breathed life
or smelled a rat
ruling human decision
passing human judgement
the Nightmare Child
is lost in a room of echoes
in a world without gossip
talking to itself
just to be heard