Emotive tornados, paintby-color litany
on shards of old broken church-glass all
turn to dust in your hands.
And sometimes I think the king's crown
you've given yourself has cut
the flow of blood to all but
the most austere parts in your mind

desecration, like you read about
in novels of torn lace, and
alabaster skin, quivering
beneath calloused fingers

As my phantom limbs build
Phantom bridges, from
invisible bricks, over gaps in
passive stasis, that
drown glittering eyes like
quicksand.

Because I'm better then you, even
by your very own standards
I drift over airwaves like a song, in
bloom. Drowning out the white noise
In the minutes while you
bitch. Over, and over, your quandary
divides like cells of metaphysical disease
Said that empathic drought is a negation for
revolution. On a solid scale,
or rooted in the mind. and all that's left
is the title, rolled like moldy red carpets
to soften the walk, beneath the leper's marquee

Eye catching crecendo, like
"Dog Catches Tail"
contradiction like you read about.
Gainsaying the inverse
Just to nip at the ass-end of epitome

and still come up short

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