19 days to 17

Paint-water seems to whisper as it disperses down the drain;
Spiraling within its own emotion, like watching a desirous flame,
Living, Breathing, Heaving, and Wrestling to an ash,
The catharsis,
of watching this life spill,

19 more days of wringing out this dream,
From a washcloth the colour grey dares not tinge yet,
Quite a mouthful,
That which I've always been,
To digress, that's a 100 years minus 17,
to dribble the rest of these words within.

Wringing away the water grey,
Used water, Murky water, Paling water,
Blue-peeling-away-from-black water,
That ushers down the sink
Into a husked, hardening, hacking darkness,
Into the very stuff from what yesterdays' are sewn
All that memory entwined between her ebony fingers,
That the backs of my eyes will stutter past someday,

19 more days of wringing out this heart,
Weary of vulnerability's leech
Ever Suckling, Mollifying, Simpering as it shears skin,
Steering a toxic reality to thicken and tint my bones
Wrinkles surface from the crumpled thoughts within,
All encompassing the seams of another day kneaded into my skin

These seeds are woven sins, wedged between the soul and my peppered heart,
With speckles resting on its surface,
Where cherry emotions churn and make a bloody mess of things,
Our blood is magenta, though surely that's still red,

I know how your own seeds settle between your temples,
Peppering your own duvet of memories,
Slithering wine between words, Weather so blue,
There's cleavage between your eyes
Baffling Child,

Sweat and tears trickle of the same saltine sucrose,
As circumstances jostle past,
With the sun licking my shoulder in a big brotherly way,
Spittle from the rain to pacify its growing sting,
And for days where I'm whipped by the north winds' tongue,  
I'll just call it experiences' tinge

A pale dusk lacquers the atmosphere,
As the sun wades into the backwaters of time,  
Darkness begins his rounds,
A harrowing repetition,
With 19 days to 17, waiting for the world to start once more.