Tropical horizons of numb walls,
Wherein lies my dead mind, impotent veins.
Inside of my skins bursts, spelling the blank point
where there is no moss, where there is no sapphire
Sustenance to soliloquy dreams dipped in blank paints
Who am I?
A corpse of redundant hopes, a pool of mosquitoes, tortoise eye.
Stammering lips gather a thorn, to poke my swollen window,
who shall remember? Who shall smother?
It’s all blank.
I see you hanging from the roots of the mighty moon that join the oblivion distance between our naked space. This space is Point Blank. Your screams scratch your inner linings of delicate skin, producing an hour of a shooting star. A river of pervasive murmurs.
I walk along, to slurp the pain, the gain, the withering, the blooming onto my toe ring, soothing yet mystical. Burn the ash, lit the fire. Do you see the distance?
Flicker the holy waters onto your collarbone, smell its corona like fragrance.
Melt along with me into fragments of desire, lost yet found.