..
that just won’t budge, or swim, or take a
decent bath. it’s stained in both strained
peas and song, the quiet longing of a scrib
-bled cloud. it leaks out loud, of ink and
salt and ‘not my fault’ and burgundy whine.
it’s running out of time, and tide, and all
other detergents. (it’s on spin cycle, having
soiled itself in earth, and rain and scattered
stars.) it’s fingerpainted jars of clay, and glass
and moonspill gasp and weathered bark. its
spark is slightly dulled, mulled in spiced sigh
-der, spider web strings and violin sway. per
-haps a simple smear campaign will flutter
-free it, fling it to an indigo stained glass sea, a
violent sky. ask it why it’s so tiny, too briny,
blotched and botched and bothered by such
angry hues. it just might show you its scars,
its sorrow-scribbled center; its heart a bruise.
..
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
Just read this and it knocked my socks off ( oh, they are a little stained)
Wow. You’re so right; time IS a detergent.
I love that hanging “cycle having,” meaning that your poem is on its period. 🙂
I LOVE this: ” fingerpainted jars of clay, and glass
and moonspill gasp and weathered bark”
And this: “mulled in spiced sigh”
“angry hues. it just might show you its scars,
its sorrow-scribbled center; its heart a bruise.” … Beautiful. But I have a feeling you’re writing about me. And there’s not much beautiful about that.
This is excellent work, my friend. And the all-lowercased sentences say a great deal.
I am writing about me, but sometimes I know that’s not all that different, my soul sister.
Brilliant, brilliant!! Huzzah! So many lovely twists and perfect passages. And the ending…spot on into my sorrow-scribbled center…love it ❤