Silence moves, circles round. The noise in, noise bound.
Take a bite out of suggestion. An easel's brush stroke designs of ever wavering. Blackened eye lids shutting down...lips of parting.
Singing songs of A Nightingale.
Captured flings, black atop blue on Polaroid scheming. Paper halls languishing. Scissor hands cut off this wedding ring. Time knows not when to quit, and so it moves right through me.
Crushing my bones...hindering my spirit.
Curdling screams heard into yesteryear. Water weight, dead weight. Temples of impending doom, this dialogue ensues.
Buried deep beyond the physical, but into the spiritual.
Broken finger on left hand.
White dress smudged clean.
He loved me...not really. I love me, never in a blue moon. I like to swing up high, and to never have to come back down onto open land, nor to those closet memories.