Flickering photos of future folly

Her eyes are iodine

To a scab still suffering

Nothing visable to differentiate

These Hershey eyes

From milk left in the sun

Aggressively subtle

Matched by my coy rebuttle

I adjust my mirrors with a smirk

And look forward

To the next car crash


Fig tree grows in the desert

Cracked and barren

Dried up lake beds

For violently unmade beds

Whisps and blue rush overhead

Shadows sparse but mood altering

Somewhere nearby, snaking roots

Elaborate themselves inward

Below, stale dust of

The stagnant hours

Patient, it keeps

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