Asymmetric

All be it limited,i follow the sand wherever it goes.I'm a dying wave of bleeding limbs flowing in
from the cloud coated feet of the sky.My hands can only feel human heads,some of them with notoriously blowing peevishly warm air into my trousers.I would stand up and zip myself but the moon is a moth journeying between holes,to me they meet between my legs.A cluster of trees turned inside out have knives sticking out of them,their backs pounded with a lot more than just empty shells,lucky they are.

 I'm a miser i must admit.So all i do in situations like these is hold my head between my knees and pull the shovel on every instinct that may surface from beneath my feet.I'm a ballerina bouncing over the dead with a sense of mortality climbing up my legs.To me that is how art should be.The hand may rise exhuming bits and pieces of creation,but what follows is the wait to settle.That itself can spell doom,although doom is spelled in a fairly straightforward way.I'm nobody to judge,atleast nothing other than the thoughts of the head hanging between my legs,not mine.