The taste of madness in my mouth,
The heat of it within my mind-
roaring still despite your absence.

Tempered in time
they tell me
Heavy phantoms may leave you still.

But I am still whirling for you,
And I  feel so twisted for it,


god.

          please.
                            help.

me.

I

              still

love

                   him.

contusion clouds burst confusions under the sound.

underground, through the air, and softer the sea.

     a pond a barrier to you and to me

          song as sweet and stiffened at the



                                                         fireflies and jello eyes watching shyly

                              your fingers are blue and ivory they burn in the light

                 song as sweet as the purple dew in the crook of your fingers



                    you are told as strong as sand

                                    you are rock

                    you are clinging to rock atoms

                                      be honest

                     you are shrapnel arriving early and departing late.

Caught in this space between (life) and death,
Trying to muster the (will) go on,
To (get) back the joy in my hollow eyes.
I wish I were (better), stronger, enough
For (my) loved ones, who anchor me when I drift away,
They call out, “(Darling), come back to us”.

Your chest feels like a cage without (love).
You are left without the (and) between your names.
The (warmth) is gone, an emptiness in your heart
destroys your (will) to live and will
(ignite) a frenzy of hatred, a soul-blackening sadness
(in) your mind,
thinking in terms of (your) and not you’re
and **** the colour from your (life).

It will devour the wish to (give) before you receive,
and (it) will feed on the the sad sentiment that is driving you to destruction,
it’s a (time) bomb, and we must do something.

n.b.

tonight the sky died a little.
baked us in a soup thick as roux
           ****** lips,
                        loitering less,
                                meditations rests your head on my shoulder.

psychic fever functions as an embryo

                                             EAT. EAT. EAT.

you were amniotic happy! stifled great! pushing jelly feeding the joyous ooze!

You
       j
       u
       m
       p
         start my machine-heart,
Fingers plucking at dust_coated wiring, slick with dark oil

Ear pressed to my bloodless mouth, my digital murmur a mechanical purring

You
       j
       u
       m
       p
         start my machine-heart, fingers coaxing a little warmth
into the epicenter, a tiny nugget of coal from your heart to mine

I burst aglow and I'm a hearth and I belch out warm delicate red-flames.

Make me live, dear
Make me live and roar

The artist knows how to play a poor hand well. In utter style, causing envy.
On rainbow edge. Knowing truth beyond illusion. The surface mingles along
painting colours, wishing it would drop and fall over this earth's surface. Moan
and sigh. Existing art, modern magic.
(knowledge Variable)

The romantics quiver before beauty. Charmed in alarming ways. Does such an asset have a fatal flaw? A longing at all costs. Perhaps the beauty of the character changes on its environment. Stringing bones together.
           As for fate, a cruel short distance to arrive, perhaps the actions is not random.
           Immersing yourself, in daily life.
           Just to be plucked out and placed into obscurity.
Some understand their own hearts, rolling over into their character, defeating flaws and killing fear. For now, you’re alone in a world you never made.
Lucid heartsickness.
Learning now, why one would crave true beauty in another’s character. A life without that soul bearing love, where poems bragged about, is not worth living, unless it’s a passionate life, wild soulmates. Grief pounding, losing attributes, such as insecurity and gaining contentment gasping meaning. Finding love, a strange waves of awe and personal awakening.

(knowledge variable)