Melancholy Blues On Creaky Floor of Dead Skin
the smell of her perfume is still in the air
internal rolling hills with large stones give me blue relief
it has been a few weeks and i am still on the sharp edge of last night
melted snow falls from the sun's red eyes in the sky
my pain worsens, and i know that i have just been fired several run on sentences ago
i am a victim of the hypocrisy of my own advice to previous hypocrites
nothing has been moved but the obtuse angle of my broken heart
i try to move, but the oil to the tin is defiant like hypothermia taking directions
i pray for her to come back, but only the devil answers
attention provides her book of directions on wilted late bloomer time
now the smell of her perfume is like poisonous furies singing teasingly to the smart part of my brain
all i write now right now are poems devoid of solid rhythm
my existence is nothing but a vapor far removed from former glory
i now have a life sentence at a snail's pace with the tortoise winning at hare brained speed
i slide down black hill mountain......white is the bloody fire of regret and shame
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