The peril of this thing is to imagine you in the
word marvel.
Anything that must point towards the Sun
must be tender with meanings
in the dinnerless evening
of the leaden chapel of silence there is always
a fury in its own movement say,
a touch of a hand on my svelte upholstery,
machination of an enigmatic discourse towards
fluidity of bedazzlement simply by saying
you want to go out in the center of which
pulses with a different life but with the same name,
or to briefly wonder
if the word marvel is its own fault and
accurately measured in longitudinal fashion,
so innocent on the passenger seat now groping for
some warmth from the black subcompact with metronomic sounds,
the mechanical work of this droning disfigurement
is that even in wings
you are relentlessly going and going
crossing points and delineating crosswalks
with more x-ed angels lamenting their able wingspan.
Unable to give birth to new conflagration – grace of prayers is nothing but
sadness stilled in sandalwood and simply this poem,
a letter of intent to crush your face and fracture your bones the same
way you do with mine, in every evening where
the final squall of the throbbing moon is a realization of the answer:
I am the one who wants to drown you in total darkness,
and my final word wanting to scar.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
The peril of this thing is to imagine you in the
word marvel.
Anything that must point towards the Sun
must be tender with meanings
in the dinnerless evening
of the leaden chapel of silence there is always
a fury in its own movement say,
a touch of a hand on my svelte upholstery,
machination of an enigmatic discourse towards
fluidity of bedazzlement simply by saying
you want to go out in the center of which
pulses with a different life but with the same name,
or to briefly wonder
if the word marvel is its own fault and
accurately measured in longitudinal fashion,
so innocent on the passenger seat now groping for
some warmth from the black subcompact with metronomic sounds,
the mechanical work of this droning disfigurement
is that even in wings
you are relentlessly going and going
crossing points and delineating crosswalks
with more x-ed angels lamenting their able wingspan.
Unable to give birth to new conflagration – grace of prayers is nothing but
sadness stilled in sandalwood and simply this poem,
a letter of intent to crush your face and fracture your bones the same
way you do with mine, in every evening where
the final squall of the throbbing moon is a realization of the answer:
I am the one who wants to drown you in total darkness,
and my final word wanting to scar.
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