Wrong Line at the Bank
The light drips from the ceiling like sweat from a whore in church- knowingly, and with grace- it drops from my environmental heaven onto my scorched eyes with a splash. F*** you luminescent, fluorescent force of disregard- how dare you drip in contempt for whom your essence will splat upon? And despite this relation I must endure my own standing here, at present; having to reconcile your beauties with the power you bestowed upon my eyes, with hopes that such an effort will transform this moment into that which doesn’t feel so much like waterboarding for the ocularly impaired.
Copyright Keli Birchfield 2012