we scale the walls of treachery
pull the teeth from winter's yaw
with delicate fingers
deft hands
grimy, gutting glances
a bloodletting
consummated with
soiled paper sheets, you
milking shadows from the breasts of naked trees
closer to me than words on a page
these fragile things, like sleep
or paper thin prayers
illuminate you in fiery glass shards
for we are splintered
and sharp
for cutting
endless loop
the circumnavigation of four,
not horsemen,
but just as foreboding
recurring
apocalyptic ribbon
visions rebound quickly
plunge deeper into
more
of
the
same
isolation
evolved of a curious mixture
the turning over of stones
miscalculations of
time
upending our supposed bliss
the poetic half-life of
absolute
insurgence
A.g. Synclair is a native New Englander now living, writing, and occasionally working in Southwestern Montana. He is widely published, drinks too much coffee, suffers through long bouts of writers block, and sometimes wishes poetry, and most people, would just go away.