we
negate ourselves. we bury under gates. so much dry mud. it forms in us. our
mothers consumed with us. if but anything to keep him. the earth is bleeding.
fumes are airborne. pride is trampled. but a silent mannequin or fading
discernment while ear-bites are designed for us. to hew an impulse. to
sandpaper a curse. as creatures galloping in unison. I tilled a vineyard. I
captured a feeling. I became a farmer. it felt like arcanum. something under
its roots. something afloat its grounds. so much in me. if but to dig in me.
while expectations have become disappointments. too many gnats. our minds in
hairnets. our armchairs becoming resentful. those patient frustrations those
unspoken disenchantments while we must accept clarity’s contempt. as tender
formation. this galaxy of thieves. while so curious we deny our intrigue. one
is elevated. another is too. we negate each other’s elevation. so cryptic! I want
that you flourish. if but so much in my shadow. I might be a good man, if only I
might try, if only I might escape the rapacious sun. it starts with
observation, into a weary sky, while many see us formulating: into screams or
fury while feeling non-content as to imagine those hives those spiders those
suspicions. such to accept life if but concerning terms while we adventure into
our wars and disconcertion.
