The Prisoner

All I’ve known becomes dropped
memories that grow in my mind
like fungi eating away my face
with fingers wasted with stale beer.

Every intention cuts through,
surrendering moments for whiteness,
numbing my lips,
its tongue holding my soul .

My feet paint running stains
on the memory of a girl
left standing
like an unframed tree,
stretched
and still.

Full and red leaves fall in the yard .

My nerves stumble, flesh buckles,
while life blurs between cocktails
and familiar mists mixed up
in the kitchen I come back too
Often..