We’ve been waiting in the mildew and unstable effects.
There is a golden incision within cartons made of breath.
Spells down through a crosscut of a landscape’s current.
Thoroughly apoplectic and otherwise indignant colors
mourn the loss of the great sighs, their blackened activities.
I rub iron and focus upon a mantel of cascading imagery.
Syntaxes from the future dead friends reinvent the palm.
This is the ripcord of an indelible parachute strung in a sky
flecking the clouds with well-lit, blood-bulbous insinuations.
Keep the reaper into the mellowing dust that aroused this.
Flat speak upon the glistening pale of the elderly knuckles.
An enforcement of the bluest pools, most foolish and errant.
This weave patterned fierce out of a kaleidoscopic scalp.
This documentation pell-mell underneath balloons of blinks.