breakdowns to newer hope


leave me in this androgyne fever; your normalcy is a cool plated castration
wearing the dials of the sun and attempting to slice the moon from its cresecnce
to a glossy enamel clip — I am but wasted on the youth of futility and destruction
— my ancient soul is not superior yet mistake it not as an inferior: the psalms in my palms
in the fibrous iron of my blood is the alchemist who knew the myogenic heart and soul
with the stamina thunder as the ultimate reaction. Your song is a syllable; a vacuum imitating a sound. My song is cosmic; still under the tutelage of lives waiting to cocoon and pupate into genesis.—

Speak yer mind

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