Machu Picchu
Clad in black and late for the wake
With the propellers in the airyard twirling
You lay a dried bouquet
in close by the cold face
The rester looks up under you.
Because it's apparent you consider them the only one in the room .
Strike off the blinders from thine eyes.
How small does the dove feel after all?
A comic strip stripped of it's illustrations.
A grandiose work of literature missing the ink from it's pages.
Autism grows a hole so anomalous.
In the ditch in my stomach where the seeds of aphagia were sown.
Scissor blades stay at a chill.
Long after they're removed from the flesh housing the veins of pills.
What makes me want to shake out a portion. Off the hiding spaces so secret, overgrown? Don't damn the madness surrounding the myth.
Because I am the mound it's insects have built.
And while it's said that elephants never forget, Insects cannot be erased.