Picture: Next year.
When my eyes finally meet your own, I will be stuck on auto-pilot; My breath will move through my lungs like a metal bird would float through the blue, creating wind.
My eyelids will remain open until your lips would meet my neck — Then, seized engine, shutdown; Heaven.
And I will shake like a memory shakes; I will shake like a broken wing.
In my dreams, you love me regardless.
I cannot picture your arrival without dreading the day that you leave: My heart hidden in your luggage, pulse erratic.
Hot/Cold Settings on a
Love like an atom bomb.
The world will end: We are stubborn enough to become dust before changing our ways and
Love wears a mask.
In forty years, I will be bone fragments.
We follow America
(Fake news, snowflake)
Down a rabbit hole of entitled homeless
Soldiers waving Arts Degrees at
Empty streets. Protest online with
Children of Change
Stillness has an echo
The Outcast pray to
Absent gods — search for
Meaning in a maze, inhibited by
In amongst a haze of cigarette smoke that
Hovers past blank faces:
Abandoned paper stands white in
Empty stores; Antique
Time is cyclical; We will hide from nuclear
Fallout, bent beneath our
The month of Janus ends too quick: Not like the next
Leaves burn and fade to ash
The month of Mars, we are
The following section is based on
Love: In May, marriage is
We have been
To the moon.
Abnormal; Unexplained, our
Histories define us. Life is
Venerable, in the seventh month.
October revolution comes layered in
Blood: Bow to
“After the gathering of the crops, the months were merely numbered.”
Inspiration is a strange creature. You spend your whole life chasing it; try to lock it in a cage.
You tell yourself ‘I cannot do this without you!’
But it struggles, see? It morphs into a slimmer thing, shrinking down until it’s nothing but a bunch of shadows at the base of a tree.
Good luck catching a mirage.
One day, you’ll wake up with it clawing at your face: Leaving bloodied scratches down your cheeks that look almost exactly like tears.
You have wasted all this time looking for God: Some foreign muse, but ignoring your reflection in the river.
You make out like
Prehistoric; Older than time. Pure: You
Prophets, hiding subtext in
Dost not know
Olympus. Meet clarity in
– In a world devoid of God, what is revolution? –
Make sense of it, wouldn’t