Not more.
I make me make myself.
Shift....drift.
Invincible end of winter
sheds my skinless eyes of fear.
My tears
carry in arms of slabs.
In the spattered whispered massacre
make feel below my shadows concave.
Crave.
Aroused is the anxious withdrawal
I am not your will. I will not fill
your nightmare.
Rage, unaccomplished, compounded, compassion.
My hymn is your utter of nothing
and your spacious willows may keep.
Golden is the underworld of my estrangement
that I am not the fiction, rather creation
of this our alien nation.
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