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.
not sure why, but i combined two topics. i am aware that this poem lacks any real cohesion, but it was an important thing for me to write out, so whatever. i like it.