Curtain Call Calls Curtain.

I have nothing to left to say.
My lips remain pursed around another corridor of curtain calls
Exalting with it my run-on mind that got left corroded in a hurried gasp of choking down continuity in its bile ridden dust
Yet talk I must.
Because in silence my portrait was but a memoir of disgust
That without words has yet to be detailed or discussed.
My cause was naked and unwelcome, neglecting causality in order to be dissected and readily reinvented.

Categories: Art, chronic illness, Creative Writing, Culture, Essay, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Writing

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