Falling In On My Self

Frame satiation. 

Syllable music,
on a keyboard,
in no key.

That's atonal, apparently. 
A figure in black, a meanderer.
Jeep. It's what's for dinner.
Lamb, shanked by the 7 iron.
Numeral consistency, sodden. 

Icarus, can you say which odyssey
you'd accept over the sun and the sea?

Painted on memory, cracks and lips.
Spoken by words, it's one over the other.
I am a frame, a shame, a self-on-a-shelf.

For sale.
Maybe booze.
Severed, shorn.

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