Laughter <br />yellow tendrils webbed in dew <br />blighted emergence <br />too much crying <br />and the smiles are yours <br />and then you are seized by the corrosive rapture of touch <br />and you are an insect <br />before your hive can swell <br /> <br />we knew only that which came after <br />i still can only hear you when the blister-flame of candles nod and curtsy to gales that bluster my broken curtains. <br />when you fester on him <br />and your symbiosis grows upon you an autonomous bubble of regret <br />remember me and my promise(s) <br />this mausoleum is a construction of the silt shores gone grey and gold <br />lustered by the gloss of dark blue flooding within towns where the clocktower is a giant, deaf toddler <br />in a room full of quiet, cloudy corpses<br /><br />Luke J. Holt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cellos-magma-and-bony-lions-what-is-left-here/
