Pat in the Back - A poem

Rain containing resin
leaves a mess every time
getting less and less effective
at washing the filth
off things unlike
what songs touch. . .

the tender layer,

cinching in sparks
flinching astrologic
in every cell
stuttering grandiose
as unknown as death
as helpless as true love,

pet upon,

dreams don't like it
so they leave the skin

untouched by their ends
beading on the blushing cheeks.

soaked in yellow sofa
the bed rolls closer
when the sleep wheel flattens
on broken vial potions.

fingers sting
outreaching
for my wayside
silky drips
of anxiety's promise
to behold me
in the lowliness.

but the sun
penetrates with justice
swears to consume us
in time
it does not know

and our time
the Sun
will consume too.