The Book

Palms stained with strings
of thick clouds, arms and legs
strict in shape- nerves suggest
they’re hanging against themselves.
Blood boils as the sun
gropes dark shadows.
Drips the blood, the tears,
or the blood and the tears-
whichever hurts more that
day.
“Thank ya.”…Still?
That thick book dangles
from a string like a puppet
from pale fingers;
the same fingers that straddle
minds. And while smiles paint
themselves on faces,
eyes stare still, empty at the:
“This is blue and this is you.”
Dilated ears soon knot themselves,
mouths corrupt the chance in
newborn babies, by preaching as spoken to.