Craft

It's been a while.

I watch the sky fast forward

as the ground below dissolves to mist,

and the inevitable future we blast towards

uses its a butter knife to slit its wrists,

painlessly.

Time distorts, 

but memories fade,

and I am the master of 

this grand parade.

But only in my mind prevails

the winds of awakening

swimming on nightmare sails.

Nonsensical seasonings

dressing a bloody salad.

What the f---?

Reviews

[caesarkreshen]

Sup.

I really like the beginning of this. I would rethink the "uses a butter knife to slit its wrists." That could be better.

I have to vote that this is a good poem because it took me more than one read to realize it had a rhyme scheme.