Eyed semicircles concentric,
rings around the verbal plane;
where ash doth not touch,
neither does a fluent scheme.
In an inarticulate moment,
paralyzed for fear of having
birth pangs. I adhere to the soft, white glow
of ever after; while we march
Into the midnight sun.
Teased for having no
inertia. No goddamned pleasure center
where cognition flies forth in reactive pulses,
warranting a flurry of biometric swarms.
I wake up and cannot move my flesh;
a pin dropping in the dark like flashes of
uncomfortable non-organic chord progressions
playing out to the music of the heart,
and not the mind. For the mind says in parallel
what the heart says in moist, unadulterated love.