For loving so missed the catch and the catch so needed indefinite rest from boneless promises,
from being a convict to the convictions of a world with the mentality of a clown in an armour suit to the definition of a warrior in a garden,apparently tilting and enriching the sands of an unseen but imagined time with his wound-cut-deep passion-brimmed soul,mind and body,
of the reality of a stranger,as a mockingbird and chameleon,who lives his life in mimicry of other realities and has nigh-clear picture of the size,color and stink every shoe heads,
and then shares this fantasy with the world for whoever has ears to listen,
throwing whoever the cap fits into utter awe,
for the catch so needed to be warmly held and loving so so grew weary that poetry found itself being spewed from a deep deep well of longing and anguish,
both slamming each other with the common truth that this world is an extremely cold space and these underappreciated words only a few people fathom are the most efficient leather coats to rock the weather,
to this word play thing that holds me together like a rubberband from losing my guts,
which serves as the alcohol that pushes out toxins for the world to call “exquisite”,
reminding every cell in my being that there’s indeed beauty in every abyss,
keeping the intoxicated in a pure state of highness and paradise.
