I've walked too far for armor, baby
to arrive at clashes and war cries
and the festering soil riddled with
still-beating hearts.
Can you hear me exhale, into damp
air filled with exasperated throats.
Dried up from night terrors and
*****'s moans.
I'm still running, from the purgatory
in between Now and Then.
But the only moments I find myself
stuck in, are the sticky sour memories
of liquor ***** spiderwebs made,
sprayed across the enclosure.
You can't walk backwards up the stairs
or you won't know when you've arrived
and magic eight ***** can only tell you
so much.
I've come too far for amor, Sweetheart,
but I am still only baggage and loose change.