Talent with words;
Cardboard facades and a boneyard of bonemeal stew
connecting the "I" in "identity" to some instrumental made-up
of crying violin highs and two layers of chemical placebos
that taste alot like smiles.
That's the color-coded codex of "miracle trappings" tapping
veins somewhere inside the latex denial
I smell in the sunshine I weep.
That's the flavor of "wishing well" in the headstone carved
from my tone of sleeping.
Tense; I tensely stutter "past" in order to build a perfect
place where some new form of pharmaceutical "me"
can weep like a willow in the breeze,
appeasing the pastels of paradise with some paradox from
the smoking gun of sensation.

Its a disease when you feel them, you know,
these words that won't turn off even when you see landscapes
that taste like death inside.

Honeycomb orchards I hear in the dreams
of souls far younger than my own; I want to
stop making balloon animals from the carcasses of dead
things and relate those as well.
I want to learn the language of dynamics in those spiritual hymns
hummed in the lullabies of closer than "apart."

Heart-shaped; I want to manufacture a servant-class of skyline
all the time.