Crooks.

Marcos Figueroa


All the hues of autumn arrows and summer errors
complete the erasure of past pretenses and tepid
heartbeats, but inlets assure me of the capable beauty
that your treble-coated whispers attempt to convince me
otherwise, and star-scarred night skies, plastic in construction
betray my thoughts and lovelorn touch.


As leaves fall to the wayside,
like austere glances hidden on the piers
from grave-robbing companions who toil
to ruin the company of love and lust
we will sit, and desire to slit the
throat of perfection.

 

And new gazes still make you feel lonely,
wrapped up in bedtime funeral processions
blackened hearts, backed up wasted years and
fading clock chimes, still feeling
insignificant and petty, but all the while
washed over by the foam-tipped tongue
of shameless summers.

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