Wrong Age

The warmth in this season, brought out from under /dirt beneath layers of skin./I prayed, I was so proud,/I beseeched heaven/ more than I bargained for/probable stride towards leave taking of my senses./My prayer to an apparatus,/I tore the phone off the wall /before it could chime,with a dull buzz,/ I came clean,I learned of elsewhere, /cities where I could talk with rocks/ giving an eagle eye/ past cups on the floor/rescued in childbirth from others/ in an unreeling of time in the make believe./Question of the day demands an answer, from a past master of questions plaguing the night./Be sure to couch bland words; /they spring from those flowers. /ones you make bloom in my skeleton;/they grow in the crook of my arms,/ nailed to my cross,/watching my eyes flicker,/containing no aim,/the rumbling of draft animals,/swallows in winter,/sound like shriveled flowers as they burn in the grate./Just to be there, /hiding, half grown again,/all answers in stops/a fitful remake of what remains,/ just trifles now, but they get it right//lean in important, capture the moment.

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