blow-up nasal spray

new mangled faces,
half dangling words
sad traces of whispers on the autumnal air
holy sepulchral grace favours,
can't stand the lack of last laughs and past shore masts.

A green haze directed towards sunless joys
silent driplets and droppages,
casting furtive lances at inward boils,
blankness in their eyes,
they see through me.
Into the distance.

Stymie. Nice word. Nice. Tasty.