I read a story in a book about a boy who hung a dream to dry. Why so soaked? He wondered why. It came straight from his fears, and was boiling in his tears creating steam around the room. He woke up in a humidor, a sauna for his tomb. Said "I dont know what makes the world so slanted, but the axis tilted, planets wilted, anecdotes dug holes and died. I sang a song. I wonder why, but I dont know what makes the sand so silty when we wanted clay. I thought perhaps another day these pots could dry in the sun." I shun the metaphor that dips its finger in my broth. Tasting what i wanted soup and cinnamon, a flavor lost. I think perhaps it's best to say I'm digging rather deep to find a hole worth dying for beneath the other cheek. But I read a simple poem by a girl about to die. Why so soaked? Her tears were dry. They came straight out and seared all the scars along her cheeks a uniformly blended pink. She passed away one sunny day beneath the bathroom sink. Said "I dont know what makes your view so slanted, but the plants were wilting, and I was filthy. And it soaked my folder through: the song I sang. I wanted you, but I dont know what makes the sky so empty when we wanted clouds. I thought perhaps if sung aloud these words would never run." I shun the simile that sticks its tongue into my tea. Feeling what I wanted earl gray and lewd indecency. I think perhaps it's best to say I'm reaching rather high to find a hole worth dying for above my aching eye.