Wednesday, February 8, 2012

nothing there

ok it is done
hubbub approaching
murmur of voices
how can i get out of here alive?

slit wrist silky smooth
the little knife
still accumulating imaginations
warm and sticky in the groove of my hand

those old days
i was lonely then
chasing a golden meaning
a fever in my eyes

the hope grows sodden
with tears and blood
running loosely through my fingers
coalescing in the keys