A first draft & typed on my phone cos my laptop dead
I can not tell you what love is.
Translated through the dead and pale roofs of a thousand mute men.
I can not tell you what love is, never pinning it by chance, and certainly not being its prey.
Only felt briefly its exterior, through exonerated fingertips
And dull pricks of mortality coursing through wild veins of bloodless vessels basking in deathly delights.
I can not tell you what love is,
But I can tell you what it is not.
Mothers wailing at dark unimpressed eyes.
Heroic homilies of rebirth played through archaic microphones built from my dead grand fathers old saxophone.
Bending and stretching through man’s creation
Reaching me with no meaning at all.
Love does not feel like a thousand explosions filtered into one orchestrated atom bomb.
Dull and cliche “harmonious energy”
Love does not take shape, even in this poem, instead hides in the places I was told not to go.
Hiding in the hallowed out shells of its victims.
Both sanctified and devilish victims. Carrying a message more clear than the word of Christ on communion day.
Love takes no shape at all.
Morphing as the lights go on,
And shivering unsteady with my touch.
Losing all its characteristics in the floodlight of absolute reality.
So intangible one begins to wonder why God put the taste on my tongue,
Or at least I’ve been wondering since conception.
And existence built to chase unintelligently,
Until you’re miles from home with poor intimations of mortality.
After love lost and betrayed you.
Betray your crafts
Betray reality
Betray bloodlines and dynasty
And the earth beneath your feet
And the tree that shaded you,
Betray it all for the heavenly connection of two separate entities.
Rather bridge the gap with a remedy more inner.
Than wasting perfect nights and dying stars on concepts passed down and never earned.
andulkaphoto
baratheonpilled
dededos
2087
pixelskylines
areudirty
