Temporarily killed by
My own poem.
I cant trust
Intuition because the last time we
Tried to fight the anger
Your melancholy thoughts
Re-wrote a reason.
In the heat of your upper
Lip i have forgotten all that I
am. A nightingale has witnessed
A cloudy massacre and her
Wings have also;
Died awake.
I choose swollen eyelids to stay
Awake in your arms.
I feel subtle breathing down my
Ink and Break the cyclic Drowning
Of promised change.
But the weather changed;
And I felt colder in your
Heat than ever before. my
Coy paintbrush disappearing and
Mentally ill eyes.
I am condemned to fly With altered wings and contemplate a million suicidal appraises. Muscular eyes give me strength to close the meaningless gatherings; I die awake.
Hassling the poet and nesting the thought till marrow; we break fast with sleeping words and moving air. Warm poison streams through our calm palace of idle breathing. Jaded bricks and chatter fills our ancient trees. We await. We are waiting. I am gone; I left and we are waiting. I am ready for our story.
