A lust for fresh air, leaves
me with nothing, but carbon
as I die slow from the scent
of an intoxicating death bed.
Paperback memories sit fixated
upon a dawn of cardboard -
laced in the conjoined effort of
Lucy and Mary as I fly freely.
Time kills me in more ways than
fathomed by clocks in an hour
of darkness where light blinds me
and binds me to confined quarters
such as a chair or an imaginary
state of body and mind.
Gray sets on yellow and the feel
of mush is more orgasmic than once
thought - especially in an age that
shows sexual urge as a "getaway"
from a previously escaped un-truth.
I'm done with a stationary lifestyle
and I'd smile, but there's nothing
that can make me happy without my
love encased in the arms I seem to have
dropped as it was all for nothing.
So again I ask for fresh air, entwined with
spirit and body alike as I let go of hatred
in it's proud and true - ghastly form and
I'll reform to my natural looks as well as
soul once this mind is fed a bit more
with the food for thought that's left-over.
I'm a statue...move me.