Auto-Pilot

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.

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Consequence

Love like
Hot/Cold Settings on a
Kitchen
Tap.
Love like an atom bomb.
Love like
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.

Future-Past

We follow America
(Fake news, snowflake)
Down a rabbit hole of entitled homeless
Soldiers waving Arts Degrees at
Empty streets. Protest online with
Silent voices:
Children of Change
Anonymous robot

Stillness has an echo

The Outcast pray to
Absent gods — search for
Meaning in a maze, inhibited by
Cameras
In amongst a haze of cigarette smoke that
Hovers past blank faces:
Expired comrade
Chronophobic

Abandoned paper stands white in
Empty stores; Antique
Souvenirs of
Future-past and
Time is cyclical; We will hide from nuclear
Fallout, bent beneath our
Desks

Calendars

The month of Janus ends too quick: Not like the next
Leaves burn and fade to ash
In
The month of Mars, we are
Nimble.
The following section is based on
Love: In May, marriage is
Unlucky.

We have been
Sacred
To the moon.

Abnormal; Unexplained, our
Histories define us. Life is
Venerable, in the seventh month.
October revolution comes layered in
Blood: Bow to
Sacrifice.

“After the gathering of the crops, the months were merely numbered.”

Chaos

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.

Ink

You make out like

Writing is 

Prehistoric; Older than time. Pure: You

Presbyterian
Prophets, hiding subtext in 

Dust-thickened 

Bibles, thou

Dost not know

Me. 
Sisyphus, meet

Olympus. Meet clarity in

Words. 
– In a world devoid of God, what is revolution? –

Absurdist; Enlightened.
Make sense of it, wouldn’t

     You?

Wouldn’t you?

You

Pretend that

Art is 

Dead? So,

Revive it.