on the verse
between a mother tongue and a recurse
of a bow meant to complement and finalize
at the command of a given pattern and key
erupting both crowds and actor
ablaze and nurturing for a given, precious, moment
a gas that can indulge, slowing tempo and blueish ways
settler of track and mood, ease of ache and oozer of pretense
I fear that fraternizing with stone and pretending it answers back
is not the golden era I hardly deserve but have attained nevertheless.
a fatal atraction is a thirst that can bury a body past the blow
the smoke inbetween and the multitude of questions that resonate here to there
humans dance in the web they call Life like they want to talk about it
half-awake navigating the streets, seekers of answers: sitting only to eat, fuck and sleep.
do we beat ourselves because we tire of this party we were destined to leave?
the apparition soothing my shoulders, whispering at the wind is a scarred brain
connecting the dots, cornering solutions
tripping on the veins underneath chasing higher highs
the volcano that birth my home island is not dead
merely asleep they said, head blown wide open
green all around, life abundant, no reason to leave
above ground the petty wickness of do thy dues
"You only drink the water
When you think it's holy"
is this mortal shell a loan
finite bliss
might as well not retaliate and sit under the graceful sun
dancing to match my shadow's pace in
a mountain is where I feel less fragile and closer
to a familiar scent
not because I sought to conquer nor distance myself
in a parallel where a fall would leave no one left to tell
the demoness in my shoulder has not won this war of attrition
in a frenzy we are both dangling
in a dream
where everything is better.
