I feel
so tired as the wind
moves in. Like
the back
of someone's hand. Struggling
to move even one step
forward.
Mostly the colorful aroma flirts
with my senses, teasing
me with it's psychokinetic
instability. Forcing me
to notice the exquisite
agony as the charm ascends
and insight spreads.
This pristine production
on a backdrop of pretense ~
a generous remedy confirming
a malfunctioning creed.
Caught
in the imagination of one's
sanctity
erased, the end
results in hyperbolic
minimalism
in the dangerous safety of
rejection's lovely
embrace.
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