3 January 2013
The air between our lungs.
The space between our lips.
The air.
The rain pours below my eyelids.
Eyelashes wet.
Eyes red.
This beat.
The rain pulsates.
Lifting.
Up. Down.
Rolling forwards.
Purge yourself.
Purging is a penance.
These dirty rags.
The rotten ends.
Waving in the wind.
You rotten thing.
Your rotten things.
Rotting teeth.
Rasping breath.
No air.
Heavy now.
I am collapsing under the weight of my own conscience.
Opuss № I