Lofted Ceilings

The fear of conversation.

Lofted Ceilings

 

The sound of cracked loafers crept from the floor to my ears. 

Dust sank down from the dark beams above.

 

It filled the light with a bitter haze, and tainted my wine with the history of past loafer cracking parties. 

 

This dust clung to men’s wounds, which meander from one red dress to another.

They wish to speak, yet lose their tongue.

 

They try to kiss the scarlet drum. 

Yet find no refuge in their lungs.

 

I stand alone, but without puncture.

I see a dress, and crack my heels.

I’m not looking for a wound.

Reviews

[Philip Muls]

I like the mood, the atmosphere brought on by your poem, well done.