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.