Monday, November 21, 2011

My Dear, Your Clocks are Melting

When I toe to heel across the marble floors
I ride the echoes of the hall
and run my hands a hairs breadth from the glossy
stucco images of forgotten royalty.

So much is only visible from a distance,
and while I squint at muted water lilies
that float with effortless grace on
pastel waters, I try to internalize

the feeling of peace inherent on a sleepy
swirling town as a supposed God
guides his lost and mortal flock.
Currently, my brain feels like it's

dripping onto desert sands where it
evaporates with a hiss on contact and
my mouth is a oval wind tunnel
frozen in ghoulish screams.