Skin once fertile soil in pots is washing out with higher tides. It was a giant among symbolic acts. Cutting your meat, watching it bleed on linen napkins near your plate. Spying rareness, crimson water, ooze into the spreading cracks. Fleshly fabric, all its strong elastic gone.
Lies are louder now echoing lost artistry so near a chapter's closing page.
Stains of pain unwashable for simple deeds of dignity. Eyelids crumble, turn to salt and blowing sand, dregs in bags of stale pretzels meant to hold the trash of time. I lead you through the parking lot cupping china elbow knobs, pretending that my passing youth, a magic potient for the freeze, can change the texture of the sea away from waning miracle. Edible Time You're near that age where death's a fact as simple as a climate change or graying hair, first the tarnish then the bleach you've dyed all spectrums lent to Autumn leaves. You know you need a hearing aid but love the silence more than noise.