After, many days, unwritten I, finally, broke.
In:

— two.

I am read today.

Crimson pages sp/lit,
in a scarlet leather,
bound book.

I have bled today.

Not on the outside.

Inside. Where my cage, unfit,
is a gaping sØre,
raw, like, a far-opened, paper cut.

I have read today.

Vast vermillion versions,
of the same sorry stories,
I’s sore/stuck.

I am bled today.

Of all the planned paths,
& every excursion,
I put my heart in vein two:
suffering’s bløød.

Pulmonary shelves,
full of bronchial notions,
pull heavy breaths,
across gasping oceans.

I can feel each let-
ter bre/ak/ing in ph-on-et-ic,
— two
whilst my heart is aching,
for an ending, new.

E.a.c.h. B.e.a.t,

falls

f.  a.  d.  i.  n.  g.  f.  r.  o.  m.  i.  t.  s.  t.  u.  n.  e.

Two,
a phantom sound,
unfurled,
that, never, quite,
rings true.

Fairytale myths.

Are the only,
worlds & words;

I have the write;

two-cling-two.

© poormansdreams