this, life

what life i,
this, of dreams, slowly
wet seas. darkness
alive in thoughts
of lesser evol : love
and its ironic sword.
agony it found
in the silent
garden of its ecstasy. this
rain of suicides driven
by homicide
force of wind. thoughtless
escape into what
greener pastures lie
upon brown autumned ground.

this life i
am unto sickness.
to hesitate.
she sees
me and not. seeing
me. not blues
me or black of heart
me. i am
neither and only
afloat. what
meekness i entrain
and find this,
supposedly yellow,
and it burns.

in the bone of
wild decay
sleep is unfound. no
dreams or night. marrow
and unrelated
to this disjoint. passion/
less than actual art. we
lost common. in the blood
it swirls to a boil yet
there is laughter
where i find lacking
absence. a presence
of foreboding, a body
of evidence unreachable
because of what grows
apart and the distances
become insurmountable. we
speak differently the same
language.