Wanting more, doing with less,
My mind is stretched past the sun into an abysmal, contorted, apperception too fractured and repetitive to mean what it used to mean.
Meaning is obfuscated because every day I’m in this…protoplasm of lust, whose hands and heart beats with loving passion, not appetite.
And where am I to go in this quiescent swamp to be fed, nourished, and watered when my mouth can barely open with lips so cracked from the sun that they are silent with the sound that says nothing.
No one really knows me. Only my fingers stretch on the keys to refract a sliver of my pneuma that is groping to be relevant in a world that just needs to…
Ball up, contract, relax and breathe instead of stretching to be noticed by people who don’t even notice the miracle of their own respiring.