my temples crumble
like boulder upon brick
as my cheekbone dances
with an islet pillow
snapshots, loose change and gravel dice
tucked underneath it
polished for the ante faerie
perched on a packsaddle camel
but I always revert back to death
when my figments fight with my night
In flight, I have nothing to say
I have nothing to give
when my door is half open...
but that goes without saying.
they can see right through me
my vitreous shields like two windows, stained
and so I keep them closed
tin awning eyelashes bead February rain
while wretched, mucky streaks drizzle
down a hieroglyphic heart that begets your name
forlorn, I proffer what is left of my wall
to be chiseled
into pea gravel heat
between my pea green sheets
acquiesing through another dark, rocky night with...
without you.
© chick norris 
