the pride of dying or so loved it
aches with spirals so charismatic. the voice in you as it reaches me, my soul
screaming its disasters. so exact too much for faint of heart so many begging
for closure. too much pain we grow into elastic in a world pleading for asphalt
– rough static electric shocks so near to losing sanity. snakeskin monument
steady in series a novel as we live more – great dissatisfaction or a second
with gods as sleepy many resting at the helm. so natural nibbling an apricot in
a fitted blouse so much a woman – too many allergies, a man begging, raw fire
rawer characteristics; tailored communion so heated over water steam flowing
into canals – maybe too independent, maybe too familiar, while nothing is newer
than chemistry.
I need to become. life has
grayness. we find patience in understanding.
an hour of music, listening to
myself, confused by you. as feeling life, or fretting dislocation at a subtle
whisper. the pain of the crucible, the gas of the terror, the beauty of the
ache. just getting it out, but it never changes, it’s true, we must contact
ourselves.
one will argue for sacredity while
untrustworthy in a world siding by few ingredients.
but a gifted woman, a man needs
her, a man loses his might.
