Wispy dandelion fingers transform to paper-weights.
Stones, bricks
weighing me down, shadowing my world.
This repetition is comfort, where I find solace in my days,
a instance in which a lack of light,
a voluminous mouth of a snake, swirling devouring,
a wet moss blanket on your eyes brings
comfort.
The dulcet soundtrack of my mind
crackles on,
pop, pop, pop,
and then it purrs slowly,
easing into a tender vibrating motion that
coos.
Bringing me down like the fingers and paper-weights that fell before me,
like an easy, constant cry of a child.
But not the shrill wailing of false purity,
like a dead body under
a fresh coat of snow.