Lamenting lost love
hidden behind harmonies,
(synonymous to symphony)
resonates absently.
Like making love
to a stranger.
Like he makes love
to me.
Void of all passion,
like revenge of apathy.
Apathetic entirely,
the emptiness that fuels you
emphasizes decrees.
Standard-less standards
validate your need
to dismantle the mantled,
and devour the diseased,
to command and to seize,
to exploit the exploited,
and explore every scene—
every pelvis, and every scream.
How does one fall for such a—
loveless being?
Better yet, disintegrate rememories,
abolish aplitic fallacies,
and survive soullessly?
(How must one do these things!?)
Here I stand
surrounded, absently,
summoning recognition
for the being
whom resides in me.
Resurrecting old wounds,
(chore almost seems daily)
almost seems like it’s alive,
like maybe one day
it might save me.
More likely, one day
it will concave me.  
But without knowledge
there is no upset.
And no upset means
no you and me.