own the title, and perhaps
what follows, but,
“it,”
came & went,
like so many desires,
moments to momentarily,
only to retreat to unreachable
recesses,
shelves in my mind,
for Without Witchcrafon Steam,
no ladder exists
for them be cleansed
or reached,

except when my dreams bleed

it is almost unfair that time is
not
on my side,
that I am eaten alive
by insiders, no
that self~kerrects,
to mere acquaintances,
more or lessened to

NOR

does the peculiar rain’s
that exists in my brain,
permits the razors
not
to go undulled, unsullied,
no,
they are scathed to
unshaven , un-sharpened,
where &
when I search for a
bon mot, invariably
the answer is a 503.
gateway closed to thee/me,
by virtue of your lack of
virtues

nor
is the motif,
my scrappy pieces
of no resistance

for all are closing rapid,
and that’s an endpoint
of sordid…

now the brain bleeds
persistent
no contented to wait
for just dreams,
the rain is hard at work
24/7