by Austin Gadson

The grips of your delusion are no longer in my discretion of
The sound waves that release from uncharted lips
Blistered by the cracks you left unnoticed.

Of lips unnoticed, he who felt the coldness
Of the isolated room at
The apex of despair

Gliding across the shards of ice
Cold to the touch, with each finger tip
Toeing the lines that glisten
From the moonlit oceans

Oceans that speak to me when you deny
My right to sleep,
At night.