Let Bygones Bury The Hatchet

I speak and toss quarters
At God on the Eighth Day of Rest
Crumble
I begin again
To try and peal off
The loose bits
Mouth full of skin
Like the insides of a pumpkin

It slides in and the voice
Muffled
Continues to remind me
Why I like to stay away
It will pass
As all things
Unless
Lodged
In
Permanent residence

Here is shade to rest
A place to hide
Snap clap snap snap
I once danced like formative years
Naked and lonely
My eyes are hard to open
Voice pushed deep
Mumbling emotion

It was a thin piece of glass
Cracked
Like ice
When Breath hits
Shoulder length hair
Shards
of
Forgetfulness




You keep a sordid slippery noose in your pocket
Sometimes intensity is just overacting