September Poem by T. M. Isaac

No more will the sullen sound of sunken flowers devour my sleep;
no more will vapid images surpass desire only to succumb to loss;
no more will, to will shrill abstractions into animated matter,
it doesn't matter.

No more sifting through softly spoken similes and self surrendered smiles;
no more slippery synergies of mutable stimulation and sleepless nights;
no more listless moments splattered unevenly across misconstrued junctions.

No more false symmetry.
No more false returns and abrupt recollections;
no more of that nauseating sensation of steaming suns saturating lost lights.

No more of cadence fettered to unbalanced jugged edges, none;
no more sterile suppositions and suffused scenarios, running longer than they should;
no more sinister aspirations, no sinful mitigations: the sin is there.

No more of that stifled sentiment; sunsets stretched, suns worn thin from constant shine;
no more symmetry.
No more lifeless shrugs of shoulders that cannot bear the weight of no more.

No more nothing, not a thing no more; and as it were, no less;
the strain of violent pulls and poisonous happiness, slithering away with winter's touch.
New measures may beget a new surrender,
it doesn't matter.