My throat is apple,
it has reddened and blossomed in the moon
here tonite and the way of a spiders walk has permeated my
frame; Shaking and biting with my juts.
I am confident in one thing, my death.
When it comes, swift and deliberate,
with the unmistakingly simple
coat of the red violet ocean
through my heart,
the valves will stir and settle-
crying out into the void for the cough of
uncertainty, for the choke of
instance. I will die early,
clothed in significance from one thing,
a brown box,
a glass slipper,
an unnamed package that
walks the walls and hallways of a small dormitory school.
What if i have left a child behind somewhere through my youth,
or what if i have spawned the blossom of a new
Brown Shirt Ensemble who carry through the night
torches of unending uneasiness?
I have at least laid a wall
among the vines
and among the careless sweeping dirt of the yard.
The fountain pump is broken,
the cord has come unplugged,
the water,
it carries itself over the lip
on it's own mission.