the wrong kind of phosphorous

as a pond in a hailstorm
there is only tumult

sussing the cause

in presence of the topic

made ragged retribution

believing bloodletting
might relieve

running along ley lines

that contact
could ease

a book
a balm

the shelter
of song

like there’s some combination of syllables
or pixels or fucking photons

that would wash new
this gangrenous condition

the unreconcilable contrast
of internal and external

at some point
the hailstorm moves on

the pond stills
and clarifies


About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook:
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s