Ever Rotating Sky
Tapping and tisking in the corner,
Slowly cooking in the softness,
To have glued my hand in place,
A fire burns in my guts
And my face screws up in delight
The violation of your body,
The pieces they fall into the holes,
Flakes of skin in my mouth,
Petals trodden into the carpet.
Like, the ever-rotating sky,
This sentiment carries no weight
To have felt the depths of life,
And the drowning shallows of death,
The storm of the half-sleep
The half-sleeping storm,
Out of the blackness of incompletion
Into the politics of inconsequence.