POETRY: Excuse Me, But… Does that Look Like {Quicksand}?

Does the rhythm of my heartbeat

that synchs the temperate

look about you as much as you

like—you’ll no doubt double over

quick as a flash forward to

sand melting through your toes

to bring about the endlessness of

you in this world of ours, can’t you try

?

Don’t you see that the temperature of

blame in your eyes will find

me to be impertinent, tasteless, disregarding

if your thoughts were angelic or not—

you know what happens when you

decide that the million forevers

to sample like wine, a thirst you cannot

walk away from, craving the unusual

along the way, quenching only when

the indifference is met by a crisp

edge.

Fine days corrupted by now and

then, taste the honeyed edges,

delve into the forgotten trees

in the forest of your soul

and know that the emptiness that you

face will be only weakness before

your hurt. You know that the wash,

grainy with your salt, tastes

demise.