Fulfillment

Standard

He grasps his grieving grapes
with gentle fingers.
His flesh turns papery
in the moonlight,
but his thoughts
contort and comfort
his blistered mind.
Blind rhymes turn corners, tricks.
He nicks a peach.
Who could possibly
conceivably reach
these wretched shores?
Is love a battery
or merely a storehouse
of complex disfigurements?
He doesn’t trouble himself
with such questions,
just keeps on creeping
and peeping shadows,
pulling up teeth
and crooning.
He has a fist
made of shifting swag.
His death is limitless.

-r. miller

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s