How do you prove an immunity to
a recurringly exhumed seclusion
when the noise of static, so intrusive when unmuted, easily confuses
and a skewed view produces only illusion's futile ruses?
Can't hands, seamlessly and when misguided, be abusive
from refusing their own bruises and contusions,
manifest and fuse into a multitude of misconstrued, misled misuses?
Yet I will argue choosing to humor the tune communicating through the intuitive music and movement that amuses-
what is heard echoes clues for harmony and hallowed union's
mutual congruence,
even in the crudest beauty and pursuit of human improvement and what we knew, uprooted.
Doubt, when reducing to delusions, always loses when refuted,
and though humility means fragile ****** included,
elusive truths all allude to an absolution through this-
what diffuses, what we keep, and how we do it the conclusion.

now, i’m no physicist
but i believe
the powers of gravity
to lay far beyond
the tides of the ocean
and the pulls of the moon

if gravity
in all its mighty magnetism
chooses only to pull the earth
how might one explain
the karmatic lure
that graces our love?

through the roughest of splits
leaving the most jagged of edges
scars ripped through perfection
forever shattered by broken words

despite endless attempts at resolution
and countless finales to our grand tale
we always found our tears
to be recurringly interrupted
by the rustle of curtains being drawn open
for an encore of what was presumed to be lost

who has drawn these continuously?
consistently hoping in the face of doubt
to whom might i extend thanks
for becoming the self-appointed stagehand of our love?

why, it can be none other
than the beloved universe
that intertwined us from formation
expending the very magic used to bind us
to tear away our blindness
and once again
as if on cue
reunite us

I hate my inner *****
                                 who flares recurringly, consistently,
        cruelly to the surface upon those
                                                            who least deserve it.

I hate my inner narcissist
                                        who rears herself
                                                                            so cleanly
                              on the outer sleeve of
                                                   Me
          bashing down while lifting me up
                                                            on the shoulders of
                                            comparison

I hate my learned complexes
                                    bred not of my parents
            but of a woman who saw                       a light
                             and sought only to
                                                                         consume it.

I hate how amid the dread and sin
                               every rippled part of these indentions below my skin
                                      I must completely forgive them.