All My Troubles
Philip Byron Oakes

     

Microcosmic biceps flexing petty cash in a come on to the left hand of fate. A tepid luster to 
artificially brightened ideas, tempting a twinkle from the eye of a sleeping giant. The kindly hand 
extended beyond the reach of the needy. To say what they mean as a snake in the serpent house. 
Moribund as recluses mixing in with the crowd. Breathing not a word left unsaid, to free the 
hostage from his time to shine. The chronically overrated eloquence of silence in burning 
theatres, cutting through the malaise and into the quiescence living as a neighbor to the ignored. 
Sleeping through the alarm in the eyes of the guardians of nowhere to be found. Into the valley 
of slow deceits, until the last blizzard blows down from the highlands and into the streets 
writhing on the molten earth. An itch created from scratch, taken twice better late than never say 
die. The yesterday you've earned. A balance of power to insights carving cadavers with the same 
curiosity that killed the cat. Lickety split of the hair looking at not from, but through in finding 
where the time has gone. Ago-go. Whipped to curds the old fashioned way. An odorless 
perfume.

 

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