stillfugue

The folds entangle my faded yearning, yes
or no, right or wrong, never right, the slick
paper attacking me, holding himself inside his
scales from a Rocky Mountain Trout. Orange
pen unused, lusty pencil welds lanky numbers
that only appear to suck in the structure
of a yellow folder. The darkest brown sprinkled
with phosphorous greens and blues, telling
me I’m sliding off the cliff, missing the tattoos,
only hearing the suicides, watching for
dangerous, big, blue books and preachers,
knowing they’ve stolen my wings. The lady
will be adult and I’ll be stuck in my teary blue
shoes, dark cage, frozen, ripped to shreds,
reaching for a fleeing soul. I wish the notebook
were mine, but I’m not able to turn pages carefully.