the bite of your anger is just waiting for
the moon to handle the day I end
which happens to mark frightening insecurities  that I may be
stuck here with all the tragic broken necks and swollen
fingers.
but maybe this time it's time to float on through the ceiling and into the chariot of fool's gold and time to fall into
the air and snap back to reality

What if this year the world collapses upon itself from the nibbling of termites and we fall into that smooth
and lovely slide towards the end of the earth?

hypochondriacs would predict that dream if they were ever worried about anything other
than that growth in my heart and the heart of them, too
I'm not .so. harmful
it mutters into your somewhat conscious ear as it gnaws
away at the organ

did you notice, you with your rock candy eyes and marshmallow skin, or were you
too coughsweet to see the abomination outside?
or were you used to it?



convince yourself right into no pain and we'll soon glide together into the golden chariot and past the ceiling straight into the floor.


I've got faith in you.