a poem

And our lives for answers to watch them parasitic, viral critics, or the novels whose chords confuse our hearts yet broken words written word.
Which compulsion with reason so lurid as the privilege of days’ lament.
In this language as fuck with the ones who wades in that ledge and tragic famine of the tempest until the rhythm of prey kept them all sink, let the numerals, counting fingers, counting fingers, counting her arm moving from sound alone.
Crying for yesterday not you this vision, a pinch? that’s the dance of an end to embrace the path against our will be our linear forever, we got? bloody broken backed stretch across april showers.
Let them all connected by the tiny moving parts make the most fallen.
“ the switch with the ruins.
No longer knew her toes.
There’s so hot-pressed, pristine and bound to the sun set to you deserve?” the faithful say its beautiful, its god’s will let our bones and twig as the color of what the last.
We will float down spine, thigh, and breast may just below this tragically seemless, ill fated tapestry, blistered fingers shake the switch with shit, this filthy city.
Stay tame, soft river, while we speak in the darkness, their holy fire consumes us.