I Hit the Pole

The crack in the multiverse is not perverse as the union of space and time voids all solidarity. I grab your hand and the vast caress, with their approval of similarity.

As the illusion of placement divide, there is no barrier to our grandeur. As time and facades give false reason and fade, it is you that I have known; prevail we do, while try we don’t, for truth is always the finality of singularity. I have looked for you always with eyes that did not know, while knowing was never anything I needed to grow.

We are great at doing, but the verity is within seeing, thank you for allowing me to see. I pass you my watch and you pass me your sight, for now we are truly free.

As we sit amid the toils, we realize there are no spoils, for the rotting is but an illusion of fallacy. I find you next to me and one becomes two (or a singular ewe), I want you to know that beyond all measures of union and time, I love you.

Throughout space and moments, I watch you hit the pole … 🌌

The Closed Divide

The space between the lines that no longer binds, with flowing accumulation of a non-holding trust … I find myself wondering if the opened hand was the must, of the honey mustard I always missed.

If there was a sense to the nonsense, which is not a pretense, but a whimsical flowing tense of things I can accept. I accept you fully, for you are the apprehension of truth, hence the end and the beginning of all that was, and is. When the truth presents, the confines are nothing but a placated handshake delivered, for a true action.

You are the ewe of all time, not for your sacrifice, but for mine. I stand in equal submission, with the possibilities of all that was, and is. The truth always finds us, I welcome it with open arms as I am helpless against the lust of it lusters and glory. For you I will.

Old Jeers for New Years

The finale is looming, with nails pulling at the binds of my bind. Slits and fits with holes of many and here I thought I had plenty. My internal carbons bursting at the surface, one less piece of solid I have. Will I survive before there is nothing less a moot point and disgrace for you to butter your bread?

I struggle under his grace as I self-digest in order to have order, creating my ration through the irrational pieces. You bite, they chew and I swallow; meager ducats are pulled and sold from the hallow. Here are my condiments to place in the visceral stead, there is demise and disorder to follow ahead.

Patchwork of tomorrow, I needlepoint the fractions of folly, within myself I feel quite jolly. With nothing left but the grated mess, I allocate the time and precision to the fix. Death will find me as it finds you, and when it does there will not be two. The cheese stands alone.

Happy New Years!

My Love.

I wait, watch and ponder. Hours pass and I find myself asking, if you wander? Words of extension don’t reach extension; walls of construct are pillars of our domestication.

Do we find each other in fields anew, was it always you? … my dear, are you so clear? We grab tightly with pseudo noose protection, for wants and desires of a future never so near.

Failure ever spent; I don’t want you to be my next regret. Words of concerned misplacement guide your inner displacement. For you are the end, the beginning, my today, tell me love will it be okay?

Gone boy, gone girl, our bellies are full. Concessions of past regression give a kind dinner of hearts the fanciful cull. We poke at livers, skin and fat; if you eat quickly it will bear fruit from prodding all of my that (and then).

You taste and I swallow, we chew gristle and paste. I loved you more than first mistake.

Fondness for Fermented Fruit

The faulty breath of life flows through; passions of illusion welcome the misfits of wander. Take my hand, I found you in the salt mines of sallow, breathe for me and we will be less hollow.

Do you depart my love? Have you found your home of homelessness? Beautiful shacks arose and clothe us, there are no mysteries here.

Fine tapestries of lament are amid the bedding. We lie and lie for comfort, falling deeper into the toils of warmth. I bid you farewell and good day, all the while spoiling in your fermented fruit.

We build a bowl or cherries, apples and peaches. Sometimes a lemon to get us through. Discovering the complexities of humor and jest, often crying at the promises to be our best.

You wither and I plant you, a dead seed of expectation. For I always loved the delusion, and hold you until your death.