jenna-nichole conrad
Life, as a pseudonym,
Drags its shadow's shadow, which snarls
Itself around traffic cones and
Streetlamps, tearing at its skin
With deliberate intimacy
To alarm Light witnessed
Only through strained peripheral vision.
A lace-stitched veil
Slips through sidewalk cracks,
Un-isolated windows,
Cataract smooth eyes.
The flesh of the matter invades
Such as the Red Death
In living color--Vibrant
Cadavers speak the language of Love:
Mortality;
It slides over possessive nouns, sticky
As salivation,
Push and rattle and harbor themselves against
Warm, wet cavities eroded
In the backside of actualities
Sweet Tooth.
Authentic miasma, honest illness.
Any footprints discarded in covers of dust
In which Fear has been recognized
Yield into thoughts by persuasion
Of waves.