The World Turns To Ash In My Mouth

The world turns to ash in my mouth.
All colors have gone gray
and sound detunes to static.

Days are a child’s porridge
lifted in a shallow spoon
it flirts with the mouth
and splatters back into the bowl

and lifts
and flirts
and falls

and lifts, and flirts, and falls.

Perhaps if I misbehave
you’ll send me to bed
without my supper.