the proposition of truly horrific tattoos.
a way for the spine to twist in place with no movement to follow.
a how for the way the blanket coddles air and lungs.
of why these instances occur only for the blank mind.
a daunting forest for those lost into the hows of things, wanting to get lost into the mist of nothings.
onward to the shivering spells of deep greens.
the way in which words are not something real, yet possible.
how there's unwantedness within each sentence.
there's nothing more of spoken in the roots.
within this ideal there can only be a closed mouth, sewn shut from the possibilities of contortion.
wretching fingers into the abilities of the stars.
the back constructed into pieces of the walls, a building to last forever in each geometric shape.
a face never truly seen in the right interpretation.
words... so many words into the stories of loss.
March 22nd, 2020