the chameleon who played with time

fire without a scheme to - blend in. sticks out like a mark waring the flag of fatigue, and he is weak in the knee when suddenly hit by the conman on the run to alley ways long shriveled with the sun's glares that still burns bright with brimstone turning red. flesh adapts to those cracks in the wall, dismantling, collapsing on more exhaust pipe blowing out fuel for the rampant fire cascading from hell burning away fresh memories of relearning with a mark beneath the rubble, fumbling to heave off boulders of con and left brimstone on my palm. water seeking out valleys crisscrossing on plateaus more often dropping from elevation no longer able to support. those learned ways harden up like arteries disintegrating to layers of fats burning up like smoke from pressure, let loose when steam hisses out from engines unable to cool. the melting point radiated against nerves left out too long on the cold pavements. chilled, frosted - the contrast of better times lingered, broke off with teeth chattering while rabid foxes sit up grinning at my sunken face covered up like smog in the twilight gone to sleep. their yellow teeth fall to earth with folklore mythology ransacking a once peaceful river longing for the clouds hanging like tapestries of my sky. wild water and tame fire the got mixed up in the transportation, with labels filed incorrectly while the time began to gallop as the screws wound tighter around boulders beginning to crack, the burden almost fails to make an impression with lungs expanding - seeking clean air. the wind is hoarse from screaming, with jokers in uniforms parading across the national stadium longing for a time to replace the tapestries no longer able to hang with hooks. they had become forged by brimstone to become foxes giving clever logic even as the rain fails to stop the radiance spreading over tons of water inert. they've become plain jane over time, no longer wishing well to tourist and locals alike, just a reflection of the self beaming back because the last time any else was made, the mirror shattered and cut the skin in a finely balanced style that the slice made no alarms go off. it was only when the wind had finally tuckered out, went off with dawn to catch those impressions made from cracks in fire touching water till the hands became cold once more when even brimstone could not warm the heart of a fox still giving riddles that stretches into - galloping time coming to find that the fire has always been wild, winds laid down to rest upon shallow water unable to stir. the skin is bleeding, turning water reddish till jokers throw down their masks, faces like holes in the desert gorging till the sand fills up too fast. then the lack luster effort to rekindle a plateau sitting on clouds permanent. but that combo is unavailable, only the hands now are once against seeking for the answers from wild fire coursing through foxes still trying to find long lost yellow teeth stuck somewhere between the empty sky with holes of the desert making attempts like a code gone wonky, running in loops till the engine sputters, winds down then become like the dead wind. air so very still now that the clouds seem to no longer move, hanging on the edge of the deserts while the holes expand to become a tunnel of time from one mirage to another and happily the chameleon adjusts the labels so very misreprested, with wild fire and water tame becoming like stars filling up the many cracks in a story told by a fox whose skin is still bleeding away from a cut.