Exhaustion spreads in quick
ink stains polluting a jar
of thinned out milk. Patience is brittle and flaking
off onto the street each time a fast car
passes. Mildew heresy is collecting myths to trade like cards representing
a game of the God’s obscured by a translucent
moon basking behind the rays of a half hidden
Venus beaming up towards
the sky from the depths
of our common earth. Fossil emotion laughs out, allowing excavators to find
irrationality screaming out from the mud of retrospect.
The ink is blue
and covering cumulus curds.
Tired atemporal memoirs of yes
are quickly growing archaic now.
