This was supposed to be just a dream from a recollection of ashen fancies and wisp wants for shadows to whisper back, but of course you stand torching the doorframe alight with your shape; you, smirk of romantic illusion and fallen grace, you the beautiful stamp of the fumes that breathe my wants to life, you the man without a face though I can feel your gaze as it undresses me; a shadow fingerings the lace of my skin to moles and arcades of scars that never tire to pageant their ugliness, and you talk back to it to sameness to a familiarity found in the wounds on your shoulders.
Horn me down I wanted to fill a knight tonight like a dagger to the sheath untill he bleeds through. I can never take you back not from the carnage I built you into. Yes a falsified beacon raging a true yearn for the darkness abed the night of my thighs, yes the credo to burn vales, jasmins, the sacred for a sight of your woman standing above god's face; the halo of the worlds_ innocence unshed to a blush of scarlet. Yes you'd wash my heels, my calves, my hips, my pit of fires and I'd lay u down on my chest repose of the sleep that felt restive torrents on your lids. Like a wreath on the dead I'd set you on the pire. My pomegranates yours my names yours my grievance greatest ballad of my life yours yours yours all yours untill bliss wash off the heavens like salt from shores. To then, I'm shoving my hands in you and you're tearing me back in gratitude_ swallowing the oldest guilt know by Adam and Eve; deluging in flesh tempting the sin yet again.
19/3/2024
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Field Notes ▪︎ Prose (2)
PoetryKillin' a few with a smile is what's called romanticism of war 🫀 Short texts about my mental affliction
