how terrible it must be
to have only two feet to walk with., my sweet.
how abhorrent, the torrent of gimp.
you are not kind, but kinda die more than our lasting -
and have ever been fasting in the break of our ventures...
suturing the succulent bog of my wound till blown glass is ****** dry... humorlessly.
you are with me... but
not with I
that stalks the reason.
you are with the one
whom's cup runneth over, and traipses thru the flint gleam
of our founding urge. the dirge forge of our burning inert !
' We' are where it hurts... and you might be clever
but you slug at love's light speed
to put the brakes to a freight
of infinite need.