By: Jui Apte
Slowly I turn,
spinning on wheels, round and round
but my back bone shatters like porcelain plates.
Whispering secrets through tight lips
brittle hairs that rise and fall
and sunken eyes which crave goodness.
Moons that gently circle,
around music that impatiently grows
things appear from dark, wicked little holes.
Peaking through the cracks
of red lips that smell of roses
and heavy clouds, of gentle kisses.
Rising and falling,
as children are born
while dead men hum on matchins made of stone.
Standing tall but my backbone is breaking
collapsing and dying
in a colorless slumber in which i am sleeping.