Christopher

souls are real and they conceal my inner wishes and tactical dreams that prey on my egotistical and stargazing phantom

and in the dark, it twitters and jostles my lifespan

there's a grey matter of footsteps in the whiplash 

and the seconds feel like hours or days or nights or serenity

gasping for air in a gospel of humidity

summer nights when you'd hinder my slumber 

you'd give me ingenuity

I'm brainless, though, when I intoxicate

I lay poinsoned, believing the tales of horror that cast me astray

and continue to delve deeper into the poison 

I allow it to seep into my haunted skin

I find a path to you, still yet

a dawn to my endless, breathless, and generous night.