chaostage …

your chaos stage is the wasted breath of empty gods,
banging their noses against plain white sheets,
bloody with their pretentious egos having slept upon them
just the night before.

you see, the proposition of unending prepositions
stirs in me the motivations left over from unspent youth,
until, like in youth, the heart is broken
as much as it was motivated – broken.

the pedantic patter of localized fame
is only given over to arrogance
when you roll out of your dying dreams
and ask that I wash your bloody sheets

but … thank you for the pretense
of allowances; I have not written in sooo long.