A Mosh. So Far.

I lace the tray with comforting butter and grease my palms with laughter. But can you taste my sadness? I rake these pasty leaves after rain and watch still, as the sun warms their shivering frames into a mold of forced coupling.This solidarity is a lie. Meaning pastes itself to a corner in the wind. The cycles churn unexpectedly.

But. . . Can you taste my madness?

Yeah. I wait for us to miss this. So easy to forget, the letters wear themselves out like a rainbow in the storm.
Is that the colors you chase, so broken in the sand like a thousand dreams cracked under the raining sun?

G,r,a,n,t,e,d. We took us all for granted. The syllables preach like the violet, blue, indigo we childishly gallop toward, through our glass ceilings in the sky.

Everything looks better from a distance. These distilling layers we seek can make sunshine of summer, and dancing rivulets of the sea. Everything is extraordinary.

But can you smell my blindness.

It stinks like a passionless pit untouched by humility. So pregnant, these eyes refuse the very blessings it seeks. Faithlessly you dedicate yourself to life. What’s the point in that?

Does it make you weak with gladness? Or does it fill you with an intimately gaping hole to know how fantastically contorted we all are.

If you broke us down, the ingredients would overwhelm you. The cinnamon rips through the air like cupid’s arrow, missed to a determined fall, yet the inching haunts you. The octave changes but you still won’t stretch your ears, so caught up in the tragedy of it all.

?

The octave changes

Can you taste my sadness? I lace these trays with comforting butter and grease my palms with laughter, but can you taste my madness? Can you see how strange we all are? Me, you, and she, and he, and him, and her, and this bunch, this contorted, contorted bunch we call friends.

Do our flavors tickle you?

Break us down.Test us. I know you want to test me. There’s an air of cinnamon plaguing your unkempt pancreas of assumptions, and opinions, and pride. And I thought you were the adult.

Your weakness strengthens me. Not because I’m better, but because you grow so smaller in your petty.

You don’t realize you lost us.

So I laugh at you tonight. And brush you off like an unnecessary flake on my otherwise wealthy shoulders. You’re intelligent you say?

Well I am the alphabet. Assemble me. And there’s always going to be an arrangement you miss.

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