idiosynCRAZY

As if there was never

This sort

Of Sundays

As if there never was

I spilled milk and

Gulped it up

I spoke brackish grey

As I whispered

I stoked and blew

And coughed all along

When it was too smoky

Murk was its pudding

And so was mine

But damn ‘twas sweet

Down and below,

Saline from the leak

drunken by blood hounds

Trickling on me

So suddenly

Fear.

This entry was posted on Sunday, April 15th, 2007 at 10:05 am and is filed under soul poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.