Young Writers Society

How long can Christ breathe out?
The gears of my personal industry
of ambition grind out the friction of
my traditions. Bare legs beat and kick
into the night's heat,
and spinning abstracts send me wheeling
over the crest of xanthan gum.
Clean teeth and chemicals mash in pores,
washed out behind me.
I am the raincloud,
the world is tethered to the spokes of my impulses,
each lover a moth caught in my spindles.
The asphalt is painless,
and nothing blooms tonight
but bruises.