Modernist prose poetry and a bit of rambling from me.
Friday, March 21, 2014
In progress:
There aren't many things
in my small sparse world
that don't
smell of your remains
shimmer and sway
to your breeze
or weigh upon
my heavy heart.
You walked in like
the ringmaster of the circus.
In complete control
no matter the act
and now the chaos
is slow, and steady
and unending.
