Samantha Istre (sam_the_artisan) wrote,
Samantha Istre

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structures of height

People in the city swirl around decaying ideas, dreams of brick and beam anxious to return to earthhewn mineral graves. They clamber inside outgrowths of skin, molehills of steel-lined glass that reroute the traffic of the clouds, forcing them to draft unnatural terms of sky.

In this longstemmed absence I have heard the clamber of smashed violins, bows softening with rainwater and weeds rising through strings. Growth is rooted in rot.

Your skin glows with the patina of need. I want to wrap you in long sleeves of silk ribbon, press fantasies upon chocolatedazzled lips and nurture a voice still laboring with the affliction of affectionate abuses.

Even the clouds find release when the breeze whispers your oft-stifled name.
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