don't promise time for sleepers,
they've the gloss of an aphid upon them
in the secretions of night
they bleed the sap from the moon.
it is time we forged a new currency
in slippage--its celebration of loss.
in the giving away to nothing
its promise is a worn page turned.
at the end of a novel
a rotting rose petal.
(we only know the proper way
to stand at dusk--in a puddle, slipping
like an infant in a pile of uniforms)














Comments
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I'm not a Wesker fangirl. I'm a Wesker obsessive. Oddly enough, that makes me a lot less annoying than your conventional fangirls...
"AH! Werewolves! Wheres my Shillelagh?!
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