Platonic are my intentions,

Those I see as extensions,

Of blissful me,

Dismal’s three,

Times two feet beneath,

The open wounds I chew with teeth,

Keep the valleys low and hills steep.

Pure are my motives,

Noble and purposive,

Fragmented and collected,

Accepted yet rejected,

From a heart sure and a body confused,

Comforting the closest of those we choose to delude,

In sections, lies a body dismembered by discord,

Broken by disharmony,

Separation alarmingly,

Subtle to the virgin eyes ignorant to blood.

I will hand three cups of me, to you,

To quench a thirst long unsettled,

Nettling taste bud pains test your mettle,

Stabbing the mouth with sparks of dark shards of condensed light,

Like bombs restricting sight,

Be here tonight…

For tomorrow will wake a sleeping beast,

Long slept for weeks,

Intentions may bend to break,

Purity may be burnt at holy stakes,

For now is now, and I now cannot own tomorrow’s fate.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s