imperfect dislocation

i’m caught up within the confining shackles of your ephemeral dichotomy—your ever-flustering presence quietly drips through my stolen veins like liquid copper and baptismal water; try as i may to slow down this demented tarantella composed for a distich and a deity, i am unfortunately far too weighed down with the persistent, facetious hope which constantly dares rear its grotesque head around the corner, simply to violently shatter mine upon a dilapidated brick wall. all in the bastardised name of the final thrill, the clause in the comatose, the impulsively inane afterthought that perhaps—please, perhaps this time—you’ll look down on me to see the blood on your hands and finally get the message.