Stitches and Scars

As the blood runs black as the skin that binds your capillarian byways winding their ways through atrophied musculature, drawing attention to your 10:30 glance as you laud such a sedentary lifestyle, I hold back tears as I cough up phleghm. 

I wonder if the rusted hooks hitched to your palms have lost their obtrusive shock, or if you find abnormality in those with spaded extremities. 

The winch has been slacked as of late, I suppose.

What wraith slipped that dirty needle into your daily bread?

What role does randomness play in such a lightless vacuum?

Sine waves collapse into tangential inconsequence, stealing the rueful wails of children who fear the dark.

Perhaps spite is nothing but an unheralded construct by those who thrive on such poetic injustice.

Perhaps they were right to feel such a way.

Perhaps they penned the storyboard and decry the fools using the wrong colors to bring their creation to life.

Perhaps they're colorblind.

You chuckle and state colors have never existed in the first place, only distance.

Technicality and aesthetic don't work well together often, or so you'd have me believe.

You seem interested in my diatribe; eager to broaden perspective and follow the twisted path of the sleepwalker.

A monarch drifts by, visiting a vigilant crocus.


Your ears are nothing but stitches and scars.

I cough again; this time blood dribbles forth.

Black as the eyes that judge.



Author's Notes/Comments: 

stuff about stuff? hmmmmmmmm probly not

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word_man's picture

a profound write !

a profound write !

ron parrish

mrpoofs's picture

thanks man! I try.

thanks man! I try.