nyaope child.

stretching out
his tongue
the yellow bacteria clings to the worn out porcelain pillars in the house of
his mouth
flaring with every exhale the stale veins in the vents of
his nostrils
push the kushed up coral sponge soaking chemicals and frying the connections in
his brain
and days of dirt burn under
his fingernails
glazed over in no particular direction pointless pitiful dried up teardrop in
his eyes
a passage into
his soul
slowly unravels and depletes into a bowl of
his memories
flapping on the refracted moments of being
his mothers
sweet, sweet child.