Cloud Burial / The Lynching of a Passion / Stained Altar of a Victim / Oppression

The air was velvet
Pink & warm bondage
Honey down my scalp
Stapled by glucose
Into the mattress,
I sink
Expressionless
An orb beacons through the paper sheet blankets
I chase for days
In the dominating fog
Once I return,
It has already been years
When I awake,
The velvet is gone
Still a pulse
Still my eyes
But in shackles
Dressed in oil
Evaporating amongst the steam
Ready to be boiled

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At night, I thaw
Rehabilitating between the tear soaked sheets
Is how a lover honors oneself

Whilst lip flowing sing-along of the words you want them to speak
The ceiling whistles at me in admiration to my immunity of absurdity,
Weeping at the hallowed words and names before I even begin to write them
The fan above witnesses the existential mutilation below,
As breathe, lips and fingertips no longer become an instrument of pleasure
But merely an accessory of absence
The decibels of unwanted silence unveils the essence of what we thought was inanimate
Reissuing matter and madness to mind

Transcending necro hearts
As we continue to be in love with what’s dead,
Not letting go

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The backwash from Birth will blossom,
Then we are thrown onto blood stained cedar crosses,
Foiled and fondled,
Crucified by children
Nailing the nines
Hiding forgiveness
That we try,
But cannot find
As they are
Dangling our dreams
&
Elevating endlessly
Like a forgotten function
Wrapping
Gifts inside our graves

Assassin the arc
It is
A Pathogen for plagues
An
Illness that identifies
Through identity
As we
Molest our mirrors
So
Give them your hands
&
Hail the Hemisphere
Because we are halves
Only halves

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Pillars portray poverty
Demanding distance

We kill men with chairs
By flirting with switches
From cowards to cadavers

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