The chilly weather unearths my perversions,
limitless and awakening, judgmental and harsh.
Chain link fences stretch for miles into the distance
I walk the length of it never venturing outward.
A harsh bell sounds.
A harsh bell sounds,
unforgiving and pretentious.
I fall on my flawlessly tanned knees
(that are blanketed in secret, dimpled seas)
and, outreaching my arms like a sinner begging forgiveness,
I plead for winter to come take me away and erase my flaws.
The flaws run rampant and are hidden beneath perfumes,
perfumes that cause digression,
sweet and erotic scents that mask aggression.
A cabinet full of different masks in different forms,
dabbed onto my neck, my wrists,
I am engulfed in wet swarms.
Interrupting this madness, this hopelessness, this fright
are the nights where we’ve achieved that feeling of infiniteness
reverberating in my head, twirling about through folded lobes,
and, overcome by suppression of the present,
falling to their death
being stored reach less in some far away shed.
We sat not speaking in a foggy dome and I saw my first shooting star.
It whizzed with a passion that I can not explain,
it whizzed past my eyes and I ignored that it would wane.
But, for a moment I saw it in all its romantic glory
shedding a grey dust in the sky, like the coating of a moth’s wings.
It met with my eyes and ocular nerves carried it to my consciousness,
only to meet with an abrupt and final pop.
But in the hair of time before that,
occurring in time as just an insignificant coma in a sea of words,
I was introduced to infiniteness.
I am not immortal, nor do I pretend to be;
and nothing no one has ever said has made it easier for me to except
that we’re all in a state of constant decomposition
h**l bent on decaying and taking our final bow
to be meshed with the Earth and to be lamented by the living.
I mourn my eventual death, as we all do
but the moments that allow my life to be suspended,
paralyzed in midair, for a minute invincible,
for a second immortal,
like how we focus on the shooting star’s path
and forget, until it’s gone, that it’s not never ending.
I anticipate those moments of my own whizzing glory.
I celebrate them frequently,
and it makes this mess of life ok.
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