Somaesthetics

Something filled up my heart with nothing
Someone told me not to cry
But now that I’m older, my heart’s colder
And I can see that it’s a lie
Children, wake up, hold your mistake up
Before they turn the summer into dust…

~*~

carry me through

what could have been

injections and evolutions

under jaded azaleas

full moon waltzing in

crests of hillside repentance

oh, how the violas sing

for the desuetude of their whim

is there a feather in flight?

or am i merely hallucinating?

answer not my inquiry

and let the mirages dream

in an adenochrome perspicacity

and cryogenic sunlight

as if the stars are a talisman

to your manic narcotics

they won’t steal a lullaby

simply so you can push back

the ocean waves with your palms

and set the branches on fire

no; if then, where will we be?

haunted by archaic conglomeration

of words whispered with your

carcinogenic nicotine lips

tasting the heroin with needles

and rusted safety pins

but lusting for the lancinating

ripples of wearied crucible

who knew addiction is so grand?

but like the allegories you

stabbed in the acheronian dark

and the promises that we’ve

sewn on our paper wrists

impediments and lassitudes

are but an oil burner in the cellar

whose arrhythmic flame

snuffs out with the damping

tempestuous breeze of your own scathed

somaesthesia and noiseless lungs.

~*~

If the children don’t grow up, our bodies get bigger
But our hearts get torn up, we’re just a million little gods
Causing rain storms, turning every good thing to rust
I guess we’ll just have to adjust…

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