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 infested sapling by a bourgeois philistine 

I wish I could tell you, sometimes nothing amounts to absolutely nothing 

But I cannot

I cannot

Still often I wonder,

how to name what is yet un-born? 

Photo Credits: La Vague by Gustave Courbet (1870)