[here we are once again] - restless legs

 

i have all too soon become addicted to the smell of raspberry,

an equal sense of youth, innocence, the color red.

i’m far down the path of the survivor, fingers pricked, bleeding out,

a path towards that same blazing sunset, infinity.

 

[it is continual warfare] - we still don’t understand the difference between up and down

 

and as sun falls abyss every night, i mourn the death of an old wardrobe,

wildflower overgrowth on a deep lumberjack button up, the color of purity.

scent of past lovers, gasoline, melted plastic.

new beginnings always come with a price don't they?

 

[listening to gunshots and silence] - it seems bean sprouts got the idea, reversal of gravity

 

hobbling along the field of freshly planted herbs,

no raspberries and blushed faces, just ivy, just stone block, just absent contortion.

oh, how i wish i could spill my wine, poured over the conceptualized future.

to understand what it is like to sip desire, birth into zeal, but crave the flames of Hell.

 

[the burn feels so nice] - the soil is not fertile in this place

 

when i was dunked below clarity, knelt at the foot of man, and bathed in lambs blood,

i realized that i wanted nothing more than to bathe in the blood of the shepherd.

white fur, reclaiming its own form,

i have all too soon become addicted to the taste of hibiscus.

 

[being branded with what you fear most] - we all crucify ourselves on the mirror frame, bleeding into the pot

 

though reality may be disfigured, i cannot be.

tear me limb from limb, dye my veins, ritualize my suffering,
but i will bleed red, smell of sugar and strawberry, and look as if i have reclaimed myself once again.

the original Sin is that still of the same. it lies in the womb of all mothers.

 

[the abortion clinic thrives here] - making stew out of the sprouts and the Apples of eden

 

is it still not the same?

to love that of which is not usually loved?

is it not still followed by trumpets?

to hate that of which is usually hated?

 

[on the threshold of self mutilation] - the pot boils over, the color of an exposed human heart

 

are we all not wolves wearing sheepskin?

crusted over our smoked out eyes, matted curls, rotten flesh over our oiled foreheads.

layer upon layer, we never change. my Revelation is directly derivative of the phoenix.

we will be reborn from the ashes of our past selves, yet still gunfire sounds.

 

[the silence rumbles in the distance, laughter at a car crash] - blackened bones crushed under metal

 

heaven does not exist, and neither does Hell.

no one will save you here, it is no longer beautiful to glorify your own passage, we will all pass.

earth is a ball of wildflowers, daisies, both sheep and wolves.

spinning perpetually around the same bloodshot sunset, but we are the only ones who crave the demise of ourselves.

 

[our scabs will still bubble up as our body festers under the dirt] - bursting of the eye, POP!