Veins full of drought
early cages for my demons,
huming currents blow
through these blackend wrinkles,
cracks of atrophic mud.
A force from above
keeps pushing me your way,
but I’m vividly hiting the ground
like a feather fallen from your wings,
or a chord that can never touch you,
like an ice cube left sober into your last glass,
or a dream you won’t recall,
as your eyes unfold
to ennoble and delight the day…
life, again, never puts me at ease
only teases me about what I’m not…
I’m a contradiction of lines
persistently dying inside,
bleeding out to death
but just for the Joy
that now I know.