For Sale

I am not the people’s favorite
I have played the paper and the harlot
I parsed through shimmer and scraps,
I have found no peace within

They marked my exit astray
Spaces between my freedom
My ankles marked at bay
Friction, indignation
Stripped of a better salutation

I placed a dime and a diamond
I knew it was arm’s length in width
I figured superiority was in decline
I packed my bags in the climate

From a contortionist to an auctionee,
As a mystery to the auctioners
Analogous to a clock running off ’99
Digitized in 1080 pixels per hour
Ripened, ripped, ghastly and skinned
Flesh on a whim

I wandered through wonder
I spoke to the echos in the wind
I gestured to the birds
I knew I did not have semantic versatility

Pouring a tune for the masters
Trailing my needles for sleeves of grip
Hers is a copper pill, or two
One finger down the linea negra
Just a nomadic or two
Three trinklets for a better virtue

I threw the plates in formation
I knew of reprimand’s horizon
I feared none of the waves at bay
I kissed all survival away