Flake the Aging Correspondence

flakes the aging correspondence

rivers flow, made saintly

as music pulses through

the walls, once laughter

heartache, now melody

In this space where all awakens, 

sirens 

in the distance, sunlight

on the window, curses

on my tongue, bitter tasting

for I, a jilted wanderer

am clean, for now, but

prone to relapse, into

filth and apocalypse, the

currency of night

when shifting eyers make 

nightmares of shapes once

so familiar, when steps

must be counted and trails

marked before the coming

yet hardline condensation

forthcoming with the dawn

settles into bone and sinew

and wipes me clean again

for now