Contact lenses
Our consonance's strung out on paint thinners
as if to try and cover up the glow of shadows
where fresh winds might still flap unheard.
I can't seem to decide how to decide on living.
Having been used for so long to merely ghosting amidst shells of smokescreen spirits,
hazily content with floating on a bleeding river...
I've let the burls of a recondite treatise rob me of any reliable repose.
I can't but pray for a distilling consolation to sprung me out of this leash
so that my heart's beating could blare a shelter over the invisible hand
when it ventures to gouge it.
