A swivel hints of a story, papers pawn refuge. I feign a fall; feathers weigh full. I look out, the letters’ sign red and the evening reads blue. In a go, gravity creaks; glows in whirls, a life takes a swirl. I can’t bow the mean of the blow. It’s the hit I can’t tame, or it lets go.
Even the odd are potholes. They seduce. Not Long after, sold minutes pursue. Itself in ruins, the longings lean and the time flows backwards. I go all the way the triple toll. It still decrees.
Talking trumpets triumph and the talking butterflies err. The means are a machine. The tics are a bully. The second’s leave is a kind into the keen. It’s the wake. It’s a dying drag. It’s black burning blues, a trial too true.
Treble travels an overtone below, train wreck a track. Saws are in swing and sew on a jazz. The shattered shut and the remains become a door, a cabaret of words – scrambled and screwed.
Shallow becomes a melody. The hallow is a piece away. I break into my effigy. The trick ribs a hole out of my shadow. I arrive through. Ghouls pierce my halo.
Well is a mob. The beaten path throes with orgy. The satiated roam and zombies eat their vagaries. A picture hangs on the wall – a smile slightly twisted.
The city sleeps in midnight hour. The train treads on lowly towers. The strung are dead. The life satires its own memory. The shaken brew a bevel and the hammer rugs a rhapsody.
© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017