The Ghost of Perfection…

Body of shame.
It haunts in tatters.
All this grief smites all that matters,
’til there’s no one left to blame.
It has the fading scars
of good ol’ times
like old paint:
Tattoos of radiant beach sunsets;
forgotten “beneath” the shore
of its memories
like that first page
under a mountain of print-outs.

Ethereal grasp
never touching a thing,
yet finding itself
by desire.

Where goes the time?
Past yet to come.
It’s broken scales that balance wine,
yet it’s sober to passion’s drum.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s