Dry eyes are ghosts of my
Needing past.
I am liberated in this kneeling
Pain and the subconscious is
Filtering our morphine lies.
I am harassed by your clipped off
Hallucinate Collars and vacant lies
Have drained by my morning
moon.
Lately your retro skin has
Dulled against our morbid
Reality. Wreathes of open grass
Diagnose our skies with
Crying dreams; I am awake.
You appear in vague limbs
And move desperately across
Our beings. We have become
nothing
Around us and everything
Inside us.
In moderation; his head
Eloped out of our Country
And into his rounded
Fakes. Our unemployed
Heartbeats are contained
Beneath us and we are all
Portraits of the same writer.
I am your
Words of different pages.
Bleed into me
And watch these wrong
Beats become invisible
Clouds. Where all my right
Feathers are aligned;
Me fevering with the end
Of me and the new of us.
