the space concealed by confessions <br />always involves an ugly facial gesture <br />of some powerful denominator <br />as repulsive as god's roses <br />incessant odour of a painless spool <br />withering notion of silence <br />and the momentary dwellings of dwarfs <br />muted <br />steady ahead, <br />something propells <br />a custody erased by dry big hands <br />something powerfull but profane, <br />something mystertious and mundane, <br />some snister blister <br />some mortgage of a confined sister <br />white, free from blemishes and juice, <br />ripe as a flattened tire, <br />coming from a chardonnated sleep, <br />real as flesh and blood <br />digested as a heavenly <br />word, <br />that remains untold, <br />somephilia <br />got under arrest, <br />by a make believe in <br />an eternal hell, <br />ultimate question is left unanswered <br />the reason why <br />is told, <br />under a rotten spell. <br />jesus's blood stinks as bad as <br />muhammed's foot print. <br />the day it all expires, <br />scars withold their pain, <br />the rain gets scared, <br />time waits for the one <br />who would shout out loud <br />the impossiblity of a reframe.<br /><br />celine charcoal<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/muted/
