Dramatic schemes of black mouthed nothingness. Dead bird, ripped shirt. Thoughts attained in arid space. Warm bathtub and softened skin, softened of burden. Any sugar coated mess of naked words that slipped out of a dress tender and malnourished across a bedspread of floral print that's finally flourished.
Ceiling fan follows the path of my eyes contained on one while the rest spin by. Layed in piss for days on end when my hands slowly crust over how a willow tree bends. Found angels atop edges of windows on neighbors roofs. Played harps in long hallways while most of my blood still is blue. Paneled sidewalks walked with attempt to renew some sense of temptation or fruit to pursue. Rotting on limbs while the world grows and learns, to be grown soft and rotted and dropped to the earth. So ceiling fan tremble the sound of rough love. To love nothing but midnight and flourish on the wet rug.