“the game”

the game.

thrill lives in the inside points
seemingly to divide my cross
aloof the world braves this ledge
interrupted toward a thrusted fist
cold corpuscle shimmy thin
find morbid remnants of theme song
singular fixes thick lisps awake
seeping wick of a candle break
foreign temperament sugar the oak
a fiber stock to build me
pearly fish speak vanquished loops
pale in egg white delusions
the fork equivocation and stream
bait months of tongues misgiving
child tumult in the bad wrist
twisted kiss in the bed rest
none undone and broken bone
kill stones lopped sideways
head drifts portrayals queued
seemingly to divide my loss
points cost each gaming thrill.

(C)2011 Christopher E. Vaughn


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