electric pulsed,
ionizing under fake sunlight
getting fake sunburn
          but a fire is a fire is a fire
and i'm still,
electric pulsed,
man or artifice or god
in whatever order,
poetry is the art of everything;
          less about love,
         more about recovery

its
waking up in your coffin
the morning
after you've dreamt
of a past lover
the pain
that heals
like the continents
                               d        
                                       r      
                                               i          
                                                     ­   f    
                                                                ­ t        
                                                                ­             .

to this end
there is a beginning
that feels like

                      god             to                 man                 to            artifice

(what is man to artifice if not god)

heavier
than the art of everything
the poetry of inky blood and red eyes
the distant solace
in pain
wherein, words
always run out
and the end comes
with a clash, we're all going.