I run. I cannot stop. My feet are to the clouds stringed.
And yet my vision falters, anchored… Grounded,
Prometheus me. That for the love of you
I will not hesitate to have my liver pounded.
You grazed your elbow climbing through the thistles,
Synthetic violets distilled under your nostril’s flare.
A powder-blue of memories’ pearl buttons
That you demanded ripped on yet another dare.
Reduced to slack-jawed tears when you waver,
Enfolded in the blaze of raw Pacific dusk.
Alone. I persevere in my search:
Lost isotope to your encrypted musk.
*
vic briggs 