Of what is yet un-born
Often I find myself gulping down a huge powerful metaphor down my throat It's purely and abstractedly water that did not rent itself out as a tear With tear, I mean a painful shadow that my clenched fist could not bleed on your viscerals You do not know the drudgery of carrying a womb on your shoulders, all that anger that even the dionysian frenzy cannot satiate I hate people who share the luxury of happiness While I am consumed in parsing the "epistemology of loss" Often I am hanging through a roof between naming the warmth I could possibly secure in this lifetime and the stages of grief that the clock-time would suffer me I wish I could tell you that my universe is an island I wish I could tell you that the sea has lips I wish I could tell you that of all the language I could possibly vowel, yours is a black giant dark cloud I wish I could tell you that when you saw that heaven in trance My diabolics were being rooted out like an infest...
