By J. A. Weymouth
Damaging these old tattered bones
Tokens, now hung above static needs.
Ever trusted, ever stored.
We, basic, in all powered sources/scrounged
A symptom of the heart. What heart we need? What heartless? All heartless
More sunken, more devoured. Little by little an epiphany comes.
Ideas shriek like stricken grass – all grass becomes golden in a dying sun.
And I see not your eyes.
Sure, your eyes are here within withered loneliness.
You are my eyes. My fervent, undying eyes.