I don’t want to be new. I’m in the throes of heat not knowing what trend is approaching any. A caliber of night slicing through my busy, gnawing days. With them always looking and begging me. To violate the airs and to be amongst them – that long promise. A hope lost to hours. Meandering and sulked, all hot. Pulled tight against the wall to suppress and oppress the angles not worthily deemed. To construct a new image in the passions of an empty determination. To fold away the good things. To once again deem all the paradise a nightmare. The new know no effort and thus perfect. Hence my war.
No comments:
Post a Comment