Spoils of Day 57

 57.5

It's only in sinking, 

obsessed by what fingers cannot hold, 

that words surface raw at last; 

one final, irrelevant triumph.

57.4

He's also just a poem, 

blinking on a screen, 

asking readers to love him.

* wink *

57.3

Let's be what we are. Safer that way.

Colder, too. But who wants to burn?

I'll stay with the wolves. 

They bite with honesty.

We sit and we bleed.

A page you'll never see.

57.2

Rare bird. Too much so.

Long wings. No longer there.

57.1

High velocity collision

strangers, just strangers;

back to flat words.