Poem-A-Day: Day 64

Slowly Sinking Self

hands dry and crackling pop
like corn in the dusty microcosm
that has the makings of a bookstore shelf,
dusty and forgotten
in the ebb of the watery web
that spins its tubes in every direction,
casting information
aside like discarded tissues
sullied by hollow sexuality digitized,
masqueraded
as masturbatory facsimile
housed within lotion hands,
forgotten
in the motions
to extol a feeling,
cast
in bag
lined glory.