These shoes grind concrete, square and heavy.
The great effort, only the greatest. Where is this promised land?
These bones curl and smoke. The effort of friction.
This load of dusk, melted into my spine. These tangled cords, spokes to my feet.
“A true genius!” Oh, yes… that one.
“So modest!” Speak the dead.
These flattened thoughts echo in space.
Misplaced, forgotten teeth line the garden. So much gnashing in the silence.
One finger thrust upward. A reminder. You told me grand and I lied.
This day forever empty by the silk, fated high upon the thread.
This inverted heart beats the completed marathon.
Wisdom reflects those flattened fore and in dulldrom marches future.
This hand as a match strikes, and I watch burning.
Centered and brief as the intentions of few. Alien and lonely the echoes forth.
Cycles of day fill my cup and drink seemingly always.
Far too acute, wishing for the intoxication of jovial oceans…
