All My Troubles
Philip Byron Oakes

Microcosmic biceps flexing petty cash in a come on to the left hand of fate. A tepid luster to�
artificially brightened ideas, tempting a twinkle from the eye of a sleeping giant. The kindly hand�
extended beyond the reach of the needy. To say what they mean as a snake in the serpent house.�
Moribund as recluses mixing in with the crowd. Breathing not a word left unsaid, to free the�
hostage from his time to shine. The chronically overrated eloquence of silence in burning�
theatres, cutting through the malaise and into the quiescence living as a neighbor to the ignored.�
Sleeping through the alarm in the eyes of the guardians of nowhere to be found. Into the valley�
of slow deceits, until the last blizzard blows down from the highlands and into the streets�
writhing on the molten earth. An itch created from scratch, taken twice better late than never say�
die. The yesterday you've earned. A balance of power to insights carving cadavers with the same�
curiosity that killed the cat. Lickety split of the hair looking at not from, but through in finding�
where the time has gone. Ago-go. Whipped to curds the old fashioned way. An odorless�
perfume.

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