to burn the body mass all those dreams of self
substance
our almost feats while unable to rebound across
midnight, of what is real in our reverse angels
flight; their over-deliberated exposed bones do
conceal adjacent skies which our eyes no longer
know how to believe and falling asleep without
any homecoming trace while an everlasting drive
bends to the infinite in short range categories,
unintentional ocean shores withdraw from our
heart where all these water flows doesn't meet.
the wasteland maintenance that renew us and by
inherent dissolution living within dawn gestures,
to assume that there are only overnight gears of time,
forgetting this impenetrable wall made of our debris.
that this latent pain is peripheral, to then spring frailty
on this effort, in our unconcealed prayings for heartless
beliefs.
here then, where nothing else stands,
the sun was restricted to the size of
our window frame, upon the surge to
feel something else: in the asymmetry
extant in anonymous shouts,
that forego upon the walls of
our home caretaking some unit,
to then shatter between objects
of our memory that after all still
arises.