i keep nothing in my keepsakes,
how wonky the uncool love we have for nothing.
we are unjoined and the peace of it is
at war.
we are no other than ourselves
and yet we lack the spine to amoeba from the sumptuous opinion
of a silent evolution.

love is rude and brilliant.
it curls it's toes and slumbers in the roost
of Oblivion.
it's more real than your declarations
but has no rain
that a desert hasn't scoffed.

Memories are dust with flesh.
we fudge the true glum of our footage
but edit the puke of our uneven perspective
to see better the void of our relentless
being...
For Thine is The Kingdom
of some Reflection
and Mine is The Word
of a Mute

and no
Joy .