Iron & Fur
You woke up with a knife in your mouth, you woke up and it was heaviness to talk. Your wooden thoughts creak and crack, you carve them into unassuming shapes--the seeking of warmth and cold simultaneously; a blurring picture in the back of your eyes. The burning silence of life and its only condolences have forgotten how to speak, thus muted by memory.
there are times you belong in a bottle; there are times you belong in a cargo moonship. I dive blindly into ramparts of waves; the ones that static the surface, glisten the brow while episodal moods pale your smiles and dry out your depths. I seek coolness as my body overheats easily; my mouth bleeds with aborted words--useful as ink, in it, the knife does dip and marks on flesh what a voice will not.