branes sprouting out of limbs
caught in a fire set by
adolescent dreams holding secrets
of great affections that are directed at no one
in particular
loosened threads being pulled through the
ring of fire; covered in kerosene
and lips that spread lies
like grape jelly bouncing off white bread
and piercing through an internal
eternal
inner sanctum
and chants keep spirits going
a debased sense of spirit; lengthened
to the edges of what’s known or knowable
vacuum-sealed and sent off to
be sold in every corner store;
before going on sale
because trite ideas always seem to be expiring
Fred Aiken Writing 