the flame of my insides
lit your wick like a tombstone,
and you flickered there, dormant,
but alive, alive in your own transition.

it was the birthplace of the ancients,
i had sung your last diatribe. i had
inscribed your taste into the lining of my
subconscious and become enraptured
in the blood you blotted onto fickle skin.

the placement was irrelevant,
the last few lines and verbs had become
pivotal to this breadline, this silverline,
the lines you trekked upon my eyes and soul.

you sang to me, 'sleep now, dying angel,'
and wrapped your wings around the tick-tock-
drum, drum, of hearts and brainwaves and clocks.
time had become outdated.
time, the old man on the mountain,
would have no hold.

11/01/2003

Author's Note: i hath.. no idea. it just sorta'.. came out.

Posted on 11/01/2003
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