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A bitten lip, stressed. Gristle’s tip,

pulled through daggered teeth.



Like, a thistle, twisted, then, tugged,

by ceramic vagabonds from West,

to East.



Caught-on a vicious,

thicket’s rug of fog, lugging

it’s thickest mist.



Bursting crimson derision slips,

from tooth chipt to chin,

whilst tongue averts a-lick.



Drip after drip is erstwhile, quick,

as cascades profer their glistened gift.



Blended carmine, silver and fuchsia pink,

all pour their praise on,

disaster’s glassy fist.



As, the last of the claret,

makes a scarlet shawl,

on a mouthly drink of mink.



Ceramic vagabonds are only as strong,

as the gummy hammock,

they rest their laurels on.



Their end is swift just like the thicket’s mist,

that pulls undone holes for hollow’s songs.



We are, all, simply, ceramic vagabonds.



Temporary teeth, in the mouths,

of larger, edifying orthodons.



Though, we may build a giant edifice,

or, pray before a mighty tetralith,

we are one pull away from an ending kiss.



An abstract caress becoming genesis.



© poormansdreams

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