Each day is a delusion,
my words and poem a levitating hue of cry.
The modal of life explained in a Polaroid,
i might die writing this last piece,
softly, like autumn i shall moult,
into a panorama of white skin
hanging loose, pale parchment paper.
a breathless wildflower of atoms falling.
a cold sliver slap of time,
i sense darkness, in a pool of parched lips,
eyes shut, heart shut
limbs shut, mind shut.
and there i am
a wallowing question of an existence,
kneading a rope of knot
Once again, i walk in portions,
an adamant sustenance of life..