Is it a gene gone wrong?
Maybe saying the wrong words to Grandma in the care home last time I saw her?
Is it a monopoly of aliens battling for my limbs?
An august heat held too tightly to the chest?
Concentric combustion?

No it's more like a love I don't want
An essential island foregone to itself by what it makes of itself.
It's an onion.
A gesture that's been held up by the victorious who pretend.
It's the changing fractions which wear and tear over time
But never wreck the whole pictures.

Secrets must be born out of privacy
And a little trust from that he alchemic
(I will grow in my knowledge of magic)
And learning to hate everyone you come into contact with
As a true legal (not legacy) reflection of whether they're honest or not.
To make the bluebells put their heads up
For the budlia to be grumpy at the sensitivity of butterflies
For the crocodile to escape fate


Amen God