Poised over a blank page like a stingray to a hunter of crocodiles.
Seemingly friendly until the moment of heartbreak.
Get to the point?
Mercyless metaphors like Metatron st-t-t-tering similes that coil round the animal brain and with a soft whisper beg the question who, not why.
Linguistic gymnastics subtal as a blade of ice slipped twixt chest scaffolding.
Gasping for that tangable ethereal life fuel before the chill of reality has set in.
Art as a threat.
On edge like figure skaters on methamphetamines twirling twards that cold hard crash... getting the point like a terrible fencer... En garde.
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Insects shrieking their best pickup lines into the night like fratboys bellow harassments off porches at passing joggers.
lines dropping into place like jigsaw puzzles made of blank pieces... the shape of the edge of things making the center whole.
the sky
pinked up like elephants and drunks do, puking beauty into a deep abyss of the coming night.
And those fucking insects wont stop harassing the pale orange clouds.
desperate to hold on to day.
whole night sneaks up with a sliver of moon like a sickle to throat.