Flight 553: Lightning Buried in The Mud

Words turn inside each and everyone of us.
Most of them are thoughts, some of them are cuticle pushing nail files.

Court, my crown is at the end of the red carpet.

Take the thorn from my thumb and watch as the academy spills over fables from broken horse stables. You are not your mother. The child leaks sleep.

The child grows in the digestion of information that retains a fraction of the lost truth. History is falling through the digestive system of social media. The rent is going up next month.

“Save nickels on your thumb drive.”

Seer them over the crack pot boiling water of conspiracy theories. Brine your nickles in the song that got stuck in your head a few hours ago. The rocks crinkle.

Everything bends over your thoughts as the day turns to dust. Another choice to make, watch your breath exhale. The mirror is truer than the truth.

Your child looks up the word “Akimbo” in the dictionary and writes it on the wall four hundred and seventy three times. Nothing changes while you’re watching it, growing close enough to truth that you can’t stomach the change.

Arms are the estranged cables that hold your phone to the wall outlet.

Find your find-less.

Find your access to the source; no one will see you feeding the child.  They are all looking too close. They are waiting for a reason to change you child.

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