clawing at the day* in surface
leaves the scrawl unmanifest* as if
etched with somethig unheard*
tallied in some washroom's croosed grace,
just to say uncircumsized steeples
lining our faces with blushed, withering
nullity* flushed all the white* spoken terror
filling said their eyes (yet daydreaming
wistfully about the creases and
wrinkles planting their own rules on
somehow)* because clearly felt,
whispered* an ineffable point into
beaten all to pieces* apparition aches
like it never, ever had to pay at the door





cross-posted to: Noise Text