The greatest writers epics nor an edifice of stone can impress greatness upon me, no sense of humanity

Time, the great equalizer, bête noir of my desire with nothing to give but the present, its present for me

For what do I owe the pleasure of viewing the world through raw filters, no coated glass

Far from this head imploding there lies another human, soft, wet, and warm ...thanks Keats, this time ill pass

I pray to a dead god this is a dream

What did they feed you to grow those arms so long? Fingers that lovingly cradle my heart gently keeping time with the rhythm of your dancing feet.

With a voice sweet enough to thaw ancient glaciers, I implore you. Scream, Part the seas, steer me from these crags and tempests. Clouds rip apart the sky, the trees suffocate the forest.

A stranger in a stranger land. Nature and truth will be one in the same when I find myself again in those long arms.

When the longings of sleep are impossible to be satiated, trudging through the depths of another beings personal hell.

I hunger incessantly with the sweetest food surrounding me, marbelized and succulent, I cannot eat.

A monstrous dose of poison, council of unbridled emotions, flows from my entrails.

I no longer own my body. A specter has torn it from the sole  anchor mooring me to an existence.

Cast out alone. I am afraid.

I reach out into the void, piercing night’s sacred veil. Clawing through madness with frenzied hands of the Centimane.

To rediscover your porcelain skin, replete with its precious cracks in form. The antidote to save me from myself.