I’d
died a thousand faces to find you;
beating
social scum defaced by pain;
a dreary
clown in hives rebuked anew;
running
faster to unlatch dens of shame.
I’d
unlock if to find an encrypt key;
some
skull-tunnel such reaching bark;
by
root of essence sun mystic tree;
purer
loquats purer fruits unsewn art.
I’d
died a zillion spaces to hold you;
if
rocket chain by gut to cry, I hear:
tenser
walls, sullen charms, ink blue;
cryptic
solace into sore violent tear.
the
attic has clauses certain raw tares;
reigning
ghosts, goblins, unmet scares.
