by Faithless Watermelon   Jan 17, 2020

What a fastidious quarantine i've found in failure;
quietly perfunctory like the malaise of my allure.
I won't ask the question the beggar won't offer change.
Humbled by the screeching wheels of an ego unhinged,
unburdened by the darkness we won't take for granted,
everyone's an ephor until enlightened by incisors.

What a sexual organ overlooked in every silent maw:
the breaking fever of your tiredness is a violent saw.
I don't mask the questions begging to be buried,
fumbled by the leeching seal of every ego tarried.
No culture beats the light from the eyes of angels
dreaming of destiny and daring to die deftly.

(Your energy is ours and sometimes I forget to ask)


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