OP (11-14-1988 / California)

For Salvaged Steel

of what clouds brewed up this storm
of who bears this barrel at hand
the sun’s sweet palm props up my teeth
to catch one last breath of cool breeze
your scent whiffs up into my lungs
oh on what a day might it linger
as your perfect posture pounds my thoughts
whipping round to your fathoms of choice
well white feathers flutter down to the ground
but I’ll hold my breath ‘till I choke
and these days turn these years as the mockingbird sings
as I’m poisoned by you with this hope

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