some cycles
are more vibrant
painted by
external stimuli
making even the lowest
lows sorrowful beauties

those are the best
when i can find silver
in every cloud

lately it is all
granite blocks
in irregular shapes
i cannot hope
to successfully
navigate alone
those sharper shadows
snap and snarl in
snideful snark saturated
sanctimonious serenades

it’ll pass
but i wonder
without looking back
how much of myself
remains smeared
across the highway
trailing entrails
leaving a snailtrail
in organic waste
an anaconda ball of
intestines weeping

right now
i cannot sleep as
marble statues
in the shape of
the two ghosts
who vanished silently
yet haunt my skull
the cold stone
a reflection of the
dejection saturated
in solemn gray

i die by inches
in black and white
drowning in the stagnancy
of an unshaken snowglobe
particulates of dreamdander
in petroleum refrain
litters the floor
i pass out into
a dogged half slumber on