I’m going to build a sky,
pink and purple and flayed
with the wretched stains of existence.
For this dawn burns my eyes
with the temporal nature of living.
These hands of carbon reach out for freedom
but reality’s chains have skinned our innocence,
covering us in a harsh bark that scrapes the ground
as we lumber onward.
Freedom is not ours,
for we are Children Of The Stars;
hear how our growing chorus pierces the Milky Way’s core,
filling its supermassive black hole with the terrifying wail
of a galactic junkyard full of rusting human hearts.
There are innumerable galactic viewpoints I could have witnessed,
yet it was the journey into your heart
that filled my pockets with seeds of hope.
(Here. I am your beacon.
Follow my serpentine trail of renewal
as you navigate this tender slipstream of life.)
Let our crimson hearts dance
like flickering flames of yearning.
We shall resuscitate our brutalized minds
with the drip-drop-drip of melting ice
as our cool existence suddenly rebounds
like winter turned into spring.
So taste this kiss of hunger,
witness the wondrous touch
of these worshipping fingertips upon your body,
for your words swirl around me like fawning moons,
luminescent baubles afloat on a distant, distant sea.
And now there is no pretense,
and all that exists in the universe
is the fierce momentum of our bodies, intertwined.