billyfivecrows

old hat

Sits on my
Blonde
Rug. What

Year were
Your eyebrows
Born? Raise them

To know
Suprise. Saturation.

Too much, then
Craving when

Taken
Away.

Kabuki escargot.

Grease paint

On a squeaky face,

Slower pace, becoming

Silent...

(Up the jealous
Hill. We're short

But we have legs. Cold

Heads, old

Heart, polish

Each grain

Of sand

To high sheen, riddles

In generosity

Of busy
Sympathies. I'm

Wounded without hubris

Crippled

You might say, like

A breath flattened by

Wrath, we've been here

Before, and

Every

Last

Etcetera.)