Vibrating images catch my peripheral;
by loren fell
Slowly, moving from there to here
There's four of them, aged and wreckless,
Just waiting to pull me out of my fever.
Languorously shifting the moment to draining,
Forcing down walls, mocking, and breathing fire,
The four of them needing a warm body for their
Morning, latent and sucking at the ground for water.
I'm left for stolid death marches, relinquish my
Volition to the forward motion and
Let the falling pieces tumble me then pull me through
The dregs again, the teething ground of another soft memory.
Gnashing at windows, clicking fangs of broken glass
Between whip lash licks down my back,
They are Delirious and Lucid; I'll follow them out, biding my time,
Holding hands with two girls.