Sanguine

It's not that I don't favor the taste
Of tight rhyming lines, of syllable counts
I just don't rhyme inside,
Not in ways that line up with the creases outside.

Not in 4/4, but twenty measures of iambic 5/4,
Measures where feet carry only
To the ends of toes,
But with pulsing heat traveling from core
To the outer limbs.

In deep night, I wonder if my thoughts
Then leak out of the ghost of a hole,
Cauterized stigmata - but less significant,
In the top of my right foot.

If there are plans, or poems,
Or if my future filters out there,
Wafting from exposed flesh and slipping
Between the window sill and the night.

Is there someone tuned to my foot frequency?
Unwittingly eating my rhymes, my potential,
My ambitions along with their nightly nocturnal
Arachnid victuals so that I have none left?

Is that why the smatterings like what you are reading
Glow pale green instead of vibrant red?
Is that why I slip out of the circadian logic,
So easily eschewing heuristic solutions
For tepid reactions to each new sunrise?

Or am I merely composed of lethargy,
And it was more a glamour of rigor
That covered me when I seemed
A more vigorous liver?
Am I more hepatic?
Merely siphoning
The harsher motes
Out of a larger
Body, growing
Numb?