The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

Strips that bind.

What do you have for me
these lackadaisical days
pure as sickness?

I am relaxed in fire
and a throe (maybe two)
that disregard the old interior
redesigned for nonexistent children.
Yellow walls, feverish,
stricken with scratches and taint,
they are the insanity which binds.

The sightless others, countless others,
require moments of drowning,
vastly, in you. A streamer of prayer
burning brighter than sound
implodes your world
condensing eons of creative ocean.

Sink before you swim.
We will carry you
to the shore
wrapped in yellow paper.
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