Waiting on reality to spin

squatting at the intersection

of misery and sin

where satin clouds turn sour

before the second hour

and recess is a ceaseless game

that crows live to devour

.

It’s a prison, isn’t it?

this panic room of soft roulette

limited by stagnancy

and stations of regret

home to blessed thieves

that celebrate the seas

and tantalize their serenades

with sounds of sweet reprieves

.

the precept to confess

lay lifeless in its nest

poisoned by the quest

for a phantom tourniquet

slipping between shadows

courting their new battles

to emerge with swollen gums

and gold turned into cattle

.

Written by floontz ( Instagram / Twitter ).

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