and am i real enough for you now
with flabby arms
covering up the scars
from an affliction
so long ago,
that doesn't even fathom me anymore.
The stars won't come out to play tonight
all is quiet
aligned with a futuristic broken empty promise up ahead
of an april of sorrow.
Inside
it eats the interior of me
although there is a light
that sees
a may december romance
and it sketches the sky in crayola
revealing a black hole.
The sun has now caved into it's existence,
it only wishes
and there is a damaged hallowed sin of penitence.
The crust has a timebomb
ready to go off
on any given Sunday
which always comes a little late,
reparations are still in effect
the cause is tuesday afternoon.
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