Maybe self possessed

sorts for reasons

when looking out

is a measure for not

 

not fall into this sea

since

 

flies cover my home

because I’ve died several times?

 

It must be in itself, within itself?

As a whole other story

one which cannot be edited?

 

It is a coliseum which does not even exist:

assumed colors

patterns

unrecognizable radius

presumed un-giving

 

which cannot speak?

 

A nothingness which means nothing

a line that none of us understand…

 

I understand as I lay my mess here?

Is that the absorption my body holds

 

that begs deeply

tide siren sigh

 

exhausted by hunger: a desire

to see her difficult look

 

which to me resembles

everything true?

 

Continue

 

we can look at each other

with such suspicions

eyes that are sharply rich

with a much effective presence

a dark yellow dance of wanting

maybe this is hope