Swan's Torch/Hopeless Chop

"Will you kiss me when I'm gone," she asked.
"If I can't, I'll love you 'til 'I' am," he said.
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I lay down in my god damn emptiness and the ebb of it's expanse seems bottomless. Exhaustion looms like a fog, the void pushes into a veil surrounding me; close, but never upon.
Pain washes inside my veins settling in the depths of my skull, pooling in my legs and spine. No one to help run such tainted poisons from their stagnating gulches.

My hair is pushed back regardless the presence of a breeze or the dewy kiss of a damp chop kicking over the sides of a paddle boat I can't steer in a straight line on my own cerebral waveless pond; the likes of which are only kicked up by the wakes created by my exertion upon the skiff's pedals. Their resonance subsisting in almost as much haste as my brief fits of struggle in advancing the vessel out of its perpetual sashay.

By: Brian Dykeman©