I'm an apocalyptic mess.
Feathers have weakened,
my spine.
Fathers defeating your
Slate of counter-morals.
And grandsons fighting,
In your perfect dark ambience.
You slide along
Their dim sunshine.
Stars in long strands of hair.
Air –
Air, within a bolt of
Thickened smoke.
I'm a pivotal truth.
A potential socialite.
I'm the average placid child.
A protruding noise.
A prolific stride.
I'm the plastic hero,
In this poisonous state of mind.
I'm fickle.
Dainty.
Drained in his fortune
Of sins.
Her life,
Her subway train,
Filled with brains,
So politically innate.
An infrasonic plea.
You dive an impossible,
Trance of trenchant treasures,
And happy measures.
We will sit our lucky posture,
You & I.
My sixty-second genius
Flee the inner torture.
Let us finish in the pop culture.