You look impressive on paper.
Though form is temporary while class is forever.
It is no shocker, that you know not the significance of the latter.
You look impressive on paper.

Like a cup of coffee gone cold.
11

Cosmic serpent
Flies in circles
Orbits earths
Visits vessels
Stings and wrestles

Prowls the plain
The desert arrangements
Faces fire no fear
Takes one look at the spider

Sees through the fire
Undresses the only envy
The necessity plenty
Of spiraling ascent

To meaning manifest
A plunge into the nest of the fortune cookie prophecies

Fate pulled from a hat
In the terraforming visions of the seven breasted harpy speech devours itself
The visioneer’s ouroboros precludes ovals of assimilation clinging tight to the exoteric
The vessel rejects the half digested
An ammonia laden upheaval

Dispelling folderol with blinding reverence
Inviting tragedy with nostalgic foresight
Wet nightmares
Logic abandons the visioneer ****** into the opposite of static

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I follow you like an obsession
Seeing your life from the outside
Noting the smiles that frequent your face
The contentment of yourself in that space
I no longer see that disturbed longing to be free of that place
That backwater town that has no place for me in it
No future
Besides a deadpan existance leading its citizens astray or
Contenting them with a simple life

You have those who love you
Genuine friends and you seem to find a way to be busy
Find enjoyment in that simple existance
Not seeking out the exoteric meanings of life
Re-emerging back into that mentality of everyday people
Happy with just being in the moment in time
Devoid of that driving passion to find meaning in this life
To understand the worlds complexities and learn the beauty that is humanity

The vision I have escribed to myself to seek the truth in this world
To see the nasty and feel a sense of calm in the face of our own self destruction
Feeling as if my mission drives and beliefs are becomeing coersive to your health
How do I connect with you anymore?
You who used to abore the simplicity of your upbringing

I see it now
As you talk to your brothers and sister
I try to communitcate experience your world
But I am an outsider to this realm

My words don't fit
And all eyes make me feel castrated
I don't speak as they do, I use words they don't understand
A language and understanding that they do not employ
Not saying that I am better than anyone of them
Because I know I am not
Humble to the fact
That they don't find those things worth doing
Worth any merit
Secular in their reasoning

I see you fit this mold
This world where I cannot speak
Without offending or offering explination
Leaving me mute,
Feeling outcasted
Dumb to the workings of their order.

But you are a camilion blending in
Taking that world as your own
Transforming before my eyes into someone
I don't know
Or would know if I had realised you were
Developing without me

It is subtle this changing
How the conversation gets more complex on my end
Reaching out for anything that will relate you back to me
My mind becoming a blockade
A boundary to you
Where I crave none

I feel you here in my being
Shifting changing
The face you show me smiling happy
Loved and no longer in need of me
Wondering when you will see this yourself
When this distance will become leagues
And you determine whether it is worth it to cross

Black tulips on the marbled floor
have no place here.
They remind others of how we existed
suitable only for that dark journey,
by those deemed more worthy,
under whose azure skies,
only their abodes could shimmer
for we can have no part .

Leaves mottled in their separateness
turn our seasons  
into days of lanquidity,
out stretched briars
tear at the stolen codex.
surmising exoteric warnings,
that magpies again steal,  
under whose inciting  night
can we wade this walkway.

when i'm feeling sick, i like to imagine.
that my body is the stage of an epic,
a critically-acclaimed netflix original wherein i am irrelevant to the outcome except in my crests and furrows and forests and plains. there is a beginning and a middle and an end made all the more satisfying by their inevitability. and that's just the flu.

i like to pretend that there's a reason. that there exists a narrative, some deeper statement held in contempt of a stone-faced court, a message that cannot ever be parsed in a language that could explain why i feel this way. or better yet, a comforting draped tapestry that replaces self-awareness with april showers steaming on a fevered forehead.

sometimes i'll think on it as i rest.
hacking up sandpaper diatribes and existing in that terrifying state of circadian purgatory that stretches every dimly-lit hour into a week of retching, violently exoteric solitude. i have a string of fairy lights painstakingly arranged across my wall, and focusing on their pretty bouncing motion drains me of ambition and fear until all that is left is the quiet embrace of constant but minor pain.

occasionally i think too ******* this.
then it's back from the battleground to the main event, a swelling dramedy of good versus evil because never could my ego be satisfied with the illogical attack of an organism that neither discriminates nor appreciates my tirades. there has to be a reason, karma or a deity or the whim of the universe that picked out me to feel so awful. i can't bear being anything except perhaps the protagonist in a cautionary comedy,
as the slapstick laugh track bites back as my joke and i fall flat on our jaded backs
and feel forsaken for the sake of
a fever that'll leave in a week
leaving me weak and

honestly? it's just really sweaty.
i'm baking. it feels like every bone and orifice in my body is aching. but that wouldn't make for the most entertaining diagnosis, now would it?