If these floors would just quit squeaking,
I know,
I could lay you to rest.
Idle thoughts sit,
empty in wanting hands.
Substance,
another unknown.
Nourishment left aching,
replaced,
no stuffed,
with trivial froth.
Taunts of tangible,
only tickle vanity’s sensory.
Leaving ravenous,
never appeased.
Cut away intricacies of tangled grips,
paths then may be perceptible.
Crystallized visional past tenses
force me to question my answers.
Would the diminishing of whispers dwindle or increase these insanities?
Posted by Modus Operandi 
