A bad ass trophy. We keep dying atrophy. I read clarity, a play on verbs.
Love made a path for us, desperate pains, laughing with celebration.
Spinning corners, popping life, asking for one last meeting.
So looney, like a cartoon, or a damn caricature.
Cultures suffer, bent on history, let the acrylic blaze.
Mail it to her. Tell her it aches.
No matter how attuned I get, I’ll never fathom the disconnection.
All these years reading it, absorbing it, so metaphysic, I touched a dream.
I have noting left. I would I suppose. To imagine a grand loss.
I heard a ruler, semi-tyranny, last to stand for self.
I bounced early. I met Coppola. I was part innocent.
Talking. Reminding to blink. I never asked for others.
Can we please free freedom?
If we chanced a miracle, bled of souls, running into deserts, reliving God’s legacy; if it hurts—it might be suffering, such radical silence.
I was born. I kept listening. Surprised. A life of wisdom, ultimately, it’s death.
I would lie. But you know when it’s bull crap.
And truth hurts.
I no longer crave. I forfeited desire. Gave her back to atrophy.
God bless the insatiable!
