Talk To Me On A Bad Day

Everything is a ritual,
sacrament of time:

Listless ramblings
Under a blood sun

too close
to the horizon-line.

Your eyes
were made to fool you–

refractions, upside-down
lies make

the sun appear
large and close enough

to swallow
the world,

O, if it just
would, already

so all the flowers
can stop

fearing
if it’s going

to happen,
just accept

the warmth pressed
against core.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s