there is no still, even in dark…
another then another more. so much time elapsed yet you’re home in all my minutes spent. there’s no keeping glass from lips the way i can’t alter your cells from my bones. another dark eve of legs’ serenade and what can i say i’m rubbed the wrong way by my angel’s promise of our dissolution of silence. i’ll wear this floor thin, your voice and the songs i loop for you commanding my head. the house nor the crickets rearrange their patterning to my noise and that’s when i suffer in plain sight and no one knows. how can i sleep hoping this night might be the one, how can i collapse within myself when i have never stopped collapsing into you. my phone a tombstone yet i believe the dead can rise again. another then another more. these pours measure the distance between reality and a lie. i suppose that’s why so much of what i drink lingers under my tongue. upon death it is said we repeat into which we expended our energy most. so i am destined an eternity of blurred vision and vesper’s chafing across skin, uneven footing dragging the chains of devotion. fear the haunting ghost but most disregard the damned cupping a flame with conceptionless hands.
listen to this poem
© Copyright Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
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