I go where all my going -
goes. And seldom
circle back.
II
I feel like Black, tastes like the Moon -
Tastes like the heel of my bread
Tastes like my hands...
Thrown up in the
Air.
I have no love, save the prerequisite doom
that your lips prove
a less dangerous
ploy.
And from this height
I might regard you
As a Goddess
to dispel.
But nothing goads -
a comet, from it's entropy
like a private
Hell.
or a public distortion
Of the Truth...
we tell.
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
I go where all my going -
goes. And seldom
circle back.
II
I feel like Black, tastes like the Moon -
Tastes like the heel of my bread
Tastes like my hands...
Thrown up in the
Air.
I have no love, save the prerequisite doom
that your lips prove
a less dangerous
ploy.
And from this height
I might regard you
As a Goddess
to dispel.
But nothing goads -
a comet, from it's entropy
like a private
Hell.
or a public distortion
Of the Truth...
we tell.
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