deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Bitch and Bastard for Walking Away - Part III
Breathing Underwater
The weather has left me speechless. This slow wash into the harvest peels layers of air. Three down, who am I now?
That's a difficult reach. In any case, reflection isn't a branch to grasp, and ripples are distortions of the past. I no longer recognize sense as property, but this sinking feeling seems to belong.
A piping hot hook between sand and surface fizzles on a wispy lifeline. It's consumed for eventual suffocation when called to answer. I promise of every ounce in motion that hangs in this moment, questions are vain.
This isn't home, but a passage that doesn't seem to end until counted on. How many will never be full?
Looking around, I see a forest of dangling delicacies. All are slow-swinging above a black hole.
And as I remain quiet, I realize my most precious sacrifice.
The weather has left me speechless. This slow wash into the harvest peels layers of air. Three down, who am I now?
That's a difficult reach. In any case, reflection isn't a branch to grasp, and ripples are distortions of the past. I no longer recognize sense as property, but this sinking feeling seems to belong.
A piping hot hook between sand and surface fizzles on a wispy lifeline. It's consumed for eventual suffocation when called to answer. I promise of every ounce in motion that hangs in this moment, questions are vain.
This isn't home, but a passage that doesn't seem to end until counted on. How many will never be full?
Looking around, I see a forest of dangling delicacies. All are slow-swinging above a black hole.
And as I remain quiet, I realize my most precious sacrifice.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 1
reading list entries 1
comments 1
reads 355
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.