Half burnt pages through and through
her skin welcome’s hopeless shoes,
to fill in the gaps from her toe to the pointed edge of the canvas lying ahead, her heartbeats stored away in a concrete pit. A liquid step here and there, among million homes of the forsaken, O’ like a warm caramel staircase made of chestnut young, left to adore empty shells of human footprints. Walking inside her brain, walking with wheels spun around her shoes, Oh hope a fall of midnights’ lonely sarcasm, let her thoughts alone. Might we just be spaces which hold onto each other’s equivocal interpretations. A glass filled less than the questionable half, thirsty knows why, clothes lying about everywhere, she’s a nightmare for their Obsessive compulsions. Spilled about every word coming undone, a glass full of autumn he spilt on her last canvas, and the warmth died with the leaves decaying in about everywhere.