Trevor Abes

Injustice?


What if: Red blond silence pollinated clouds once after death and undertows, corridors filled with sexagenarians singing Sinatra, flying overhead paper cups brim to the essence.
Seldom ripjaws of misunderstood last breaths made along detective’s fine profile, frozen beside someone watching the stars while pointing towards the elm tree in the middle of an open field, burning green shaped eyes crumbling, mumbling fluent gobbledygook, how dream sighs fading away.

 

Maybe: Preaching opalescent rocks covered in disaster, the beauty inside the word carnage or cyanide, ripple evanescent, sanctioned youth freedomriders, hoping for calm skies and blueberry whispers, on the road withered dissected by songs distant, listening yet shouting an imperceptible howl to mass content, over and over again.