The turmoil, instilled in a hard body; broken with the echoes of a soft wind, my mind reels and my heart consists of spinning coils draped with plastic lining Your flow of words, and the soft spin of death one matter overflows this rotten core of debris I stain the pleasantries of our infatuation, like fine silk bled through; and when the milk absorbs, I find myself bereft of any consciousness I may have preserved Open hands and an undercurrent Poison motions of the wind, bleeding toxic fumes to where my heart melts; and is this death And is this my demise, in a small chariot of fire? Christened to be the fumigating pulse of dream, where soil evaporates and flame drips down among the livestock I take you in my hands, and grasp onto your sweet skull, even as it lived here long before our time; your nothing Is the flavor of our dance, and so we perish Among the dewdrops in the distance.
Posted on: Sun, 03 Nov 2013 15:36:50 +0000
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