Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Per Usual/philip byron oakes

Sleep of superlatives averaging out over a span of
pretensions, knitting character to a roseate wobble
of the times. Mouthfuls scarring silent nights.
Sculpting wrinkles in solace surrendered, in sacrifice
to balance hinging on the willfully unknown.
Complicity in mystery maligning fragile hopes for
shadows tossed about the yard. The heroically
ignored remodeling crannies in accordance, just
enough to explain what is so glibly away. Littering
the future of the past in the mind, planting gardens
where little is expected to grow. But the dank
burrowing niches in the depth, from which light
shrinks in concurrence with the simplicity of
assumptions. Beneath umbrellas of hyperbole
bloating the inverse, to feasibility amidst hopes
squandered, reining in the good and bad of it
sold to tourists as mementoes
of having lived.

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