Literature
Untitled
scrape the color off the sky like a lotto ticket
unwanted paint in a musty room-
and the remains underneath your fingernails, are just
cold, neon reptile saliva.
lift up an old bandaid,
it hasn't healed, has it?
sickly pale, recluse skin
sulking, nihilist grey
hysteria of claw, bone, fur
the forest now the prey of fire.
the aurora borealis
in the wobbly knee'd fawn's eyes
it was waiting for you,
the wilting world
welcoming you with it's indifference
and now you've awaken
in it's obedience.