FoR

Midst of many,

have you come today

to reveal my sorrow?

Is your spontaneous appearance

perchance a knox of null

filling the inevitable grid,

a yearning to define their cause,

yet find myself intently locked

in a further loss of self?

Who are you?

Are these doubts the crux

of a greater good

or a sporadic song

where I can bask

in the flaccid waters

of your sultry acid?

Are these pages

the product of hope

or sorts of psychic fear?

Is the dust gathering

on the rim of combustion

inevitably glued

to the cobwebs

of ruined peaches,

wilted prudence,

and that one damn broken record?

Are these rocks

slamming against

the myriad of frustrations,

possibility of penance

for being too fucking much?

Are miles walked plus gratuity

just a luxury pile

to squander in a swamp

of lost sentiment

and wounded lips,

aroused by poignant teeth,

those of a real man,

unafraid to gaze

into the void of eccentric eyes,

finding the bits and pieces

measly scattered around

by senseless cowards

with no judgment?

We have arrived, my dear.

We are defying lust

and connecting to

our own magnificent wavelength,

blowing mutual misinterpretation

into the confinement

of the unknown.