by Mitch Green
She stood still – in broken fragments of bleeding glass,
Washed into palms of home-grown flesh;
Psychopathic, necromantic, romantic – lost in mass.
Meddling meaning, mingles with mad hands;
Clapping in rhythmic, rhyming pace.
In dreamscapes you thrive –
Real. Mold – casted to hold.
So close to tongue out the taste, but what of poison.
Sway softly amid the edge of pragmatic waste – pouring down.
Where conclusive conscious strays silent; separated from space.