when i fell asleep
inside you
love was wide
awake

a tantrum of idle thoughts about you throughout the haze of day
resembles itself like a wave of unrelenting devotion surpassing lanes-
parallel to memory’s road that veers far left of our fondest wish
however we drive our sanity to the nearest bar to forget our hope.
it is love spilling into sleepy spoons
with tsunami dreams of perpetual
You.

Ingenious hourglass pinching a single grain in your sourmash
till it Distills the moment you forgot to be a Slave to your Aftermath
Reigning Supreme at the center of your Winter’s Wrath
Dining on Porcelain Lions dancing on a Plinth of Glass Ravens
As they Laugh in awe of your Emancipation
No longer under Grief’s Lash.

Reflection never stutters…
utterly stuck to who you are, should you Ask.
Faithful to a crisp seeming in the eye halls of your last Gasp,
If only we Knew, before we struck Bells in the Ice Caves of
Our deported Masks- And save Ourselves completely
From Our Symphonies
Of Painful Past.

But for Now our Love
in a Paper Flask.

Anchored to the tip of a vicious pin
too whalesong to cog
careful to strictly wither
with a liberal eye
at the foot of a moon
smelling salts and assaults
upon absolute time
like a
cage-breaker
mending
cages

with smart
hands to the task
at hand -
but dumbluck
for parchment
and large blocks of flotsam
charging into dawn
with an ornate spear
for the heart
of a mundane
dark.
lest your heart
be your
gallows

( tin star
and
hole ).

I have arranged all this just to have a moment alone with you.
I brought with me all the marigolds I could fit in a jar between worlds
and some fireflies that are loathe to forget the weight
of your gossamer shadow, for they pray to their gods
to glow beneath you as I pray to mine
to Love you.

But from an alien palace with an ordinary “ Dasvidaniya “
where my smoke lingers in the curtains-
and my pyramids are spheres…
I demise in my way with a myriad frailties
aligned with false stars and narrow avenues of broad despair.
my chapel is a hook in the sun, full of sabotage
and butterflies. I come seldom to a  pause in all my grief
but every hour loving you
is some salvation
even the ******
can believe.

their fear is the only thing they eat.
bone soup and entrails mind boggling
as every hour is a pursuit of vanity
posing as a pillar of the community
with complete immunity
as long as the money is long
and the idiots are many.

their fear is weaponized
like a Catholic joke within earshot
of an altar boy with
a secret shame.
a soul eating myth
that propagates hate
with all the tendrils of love
that bare no resemblance
to sanity, as they spoil
and collude
to Divide.