hook of comfort

Before your homely art, my mother.

                   I come mysteriously crisper outside my body.

Bait me after you; let us fish.
                   I left the hook I can't comprehend,
another watery grace there is drowning souls.

                   I am tired pretending to the future.
I can't swim.
Canoe me, I left my hope and desires.
                   Looking. Looking. Without seeing.

My brothers are scholars in the art of killing,
but unable to master how to bleach their hearts,

They are a book with cruel characters
                  sweet landscapes; going backward,
and dialogues that brain-drain its readers.
                  Characters that will dialogue you
out of reality into their perception;
                 till you eat your fingers taking it for spoon

they've kissed me with the lips of their hatreds
                   Till I resembled a sachet of weak love.

Till voids steep me and gross my hope.
If you are a drunker, better wine will bait you.