You stretch. Like a dough. Raugh on the edges.
You apply more pressure. Just to even. Bits. Tidbits.
Tongue is like a gluten, folded in million squares.
Still searching for the right words. Right expression.
(meaning or deception).
Evening comes. Chloritized in color, fervent in odor.
You burn from all sides. Curling on the fringes of thought,
never escaping the cave of the dome.
My muse replaced by knife.
The crunch is there, the fracture just tight.
Corners dissipate like erosion of syllables.
Mold me, roll me, foil me in pocket,
for the never coming tomorrow.
Eat the scrapes, sharp as shards of glass,
under the mountain of words so sweet and brass.
Rapture of meaning, in the meaning of rupture,
finds its ray of home. Here. Tonight. With you.
