Fifteen

Unhappy in the present and

distant ways.

Even amidst these images

and if they were to manifest

clutching my head

their breasts and wash

away the drought of tears from

my faces, cracking the hollow’ess

from my smiles, breathing into the

sighs if laughter.

 

As the boredom cascades into

an even decadence,

worthy of my own tears neither

any others, nor grief neither mourn

 

As in loss of nothing,

nothing is lost

What is it that is too be gained?

Vapid flesh-like attire for

the subsistence pages for

one, none and no one.

 

A sharing of the meaningful

feast of nothing with the

hollow’ess

Ink like shattered pearls,

flung into the wind dressed

fate through star-tinted

window

 

Seeking Gaia’s bosom, as I

flirt with Mary moon, never

to tally up the ungrateful boon

Then flung face first into

some-other dreams

And play with those e’er to come nor eave.

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