Crashlanding in alphabetical sequences,
chemically endowed with spiritualism
until the torrential divides dynamically squeeze
off volleys in their implications;
pressing keypad to forehead
to floorboard
to foreplay
to razor-sharp shadows spilling over
a landscape of sleeping
and waking up shivering in a land
"no place like home."

Waking; simply the redirection of thought
until there are no longer rooms filled with flowers
but are instead villas filled with beheaded daisies,
all sitting in glass bowls and wonderlessly
pedaling sign language "let me dies" while
eyes drop glances on the forays and exclaim
"aren't they beautiful?"

Hideous; the world you create.

Too many flowers torn from roots and shoved into
glass panels where their gesture can be misread
by faces that wouldn't know wonder
if it buried them in its backyard.
Too many flowers just like me.

Boldface; the ledgers of lending expressions
until the face turns blue with gasping.
Maybe, one day, I'll speak long enough to suffocate
in an ocean of words.
One day, I may be free.