|
eating into something |
my cuticles linger in one corner
like neglected, curled birthday ribbons
the ones (my bitten fingernails): continue in their orgy
asking, "How does one find love?"
counting countless birthdays, not a cake though
glancing at my youth;
mirror. word smitten. the years break themselves --
{apart} from the
avalanche of memories, rapt in final wrinkles
i, am, too, old, for, this;
the world is scheming farther away
from my fundamentalist's thoughts
i am no young man
finding reasons from too many books
like split infinitives, rephrasing life
each moment frays the clouds; sun, unnoticeable
copyright 2005
Clee
Villasor |
