My garnish, my varnish - avoided and tarnished. My fragments lag behind, stagnant, unsure where to land. My bee legs squat at pollen, get caught looking, glass. Gloss tosses me, from a meadow, mellow, to a featherless bellow, so far over confident as to have arrived on the continent, yearning for learning and only finding earning by burning. A shovel and a pile of coal, that's a hundred and fifty Christmases of warm charity and ten thousand of hot end of life. Purple hands. My hands. Temperature lost in the discoloration. What was once called a soul fills with blue mold, passing and passing, far from of mind. Sight lights, once stars, are aluminummed out the same way numbness went extinct: through great, egregious effort, hard-worked, under-identifiable, until the legibility patrol passed by and said that we cannot name. And so it went, that immensely temporary dream that used to answer to art and now fills our lungs with fire's excrement.
Roman Ryan 