A fusion of nicotine and parapraxis
my gelatinous roots give way beneath me.
The quarter moon stirs behind a vestment of clouds,
though meager she still sparks.
My mealy mouth, squirrels away smiles and lies.
A scapegrace queasy with confrontation.
The day enacts what the night has cause to hide.
We are jest, we are shadow.
When the abyss rises to meet me
then I will be lost, then I will be among many.
A bit of rapid fire poetry. 2 minutes so maybe it doesn’t make sense lol