STICHED WRECKAGE


I am selling the sentries at the hatchway of my skin
To the vagabonds breathing in someone else's breath.
Knowing the unknown strings of demise,
Will I ever be able to let myself survive,
Underneath the wine red valleys?

Enduring the blood filled silver lines
Between the blue and crimson red,
Like a fierce woman wagging
Her wreath to the extremities,
Unable to adsorb the subtle flow of the bullseye.

My blood cells whirling like the hour hand
Searching for the one wave that passes by
Yearning for the time to recline on the chaise lounge
For a long-long zero time.

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