Some oceans of letters, runic rivers of old flood a room.
Squelching breath, popping finger bones and ear drums in
igniting blossoms gone rogue —loud paroxysms that blow and plow
such a cranium into deep, deep darkness.
The hungry tongue runs across the teeth,
the heart thumps in om-dum, om-dum, wild and running
into the throat and imploding there, sucking air dry.
That within the within, is a soul within soul; speaking nothings yet
clear somethings that had once a spark which toppled out and
widened the ribcage broad, so to let the heart beat bare
and without disruption. Wet
and purplish pure, pumping in red and blue.
That great muscle has hope, as it shoves towards soliloquy,
moving undeterred through root, rock, and dirt in love.
It likens the bloom, so surely, that they both do wilt
under the same cold and cruelty.
The mind sees this, for the symbols do spill in repetition thick.
In serpentine, the mind does run itself ragged, dissolving all mass to it’s will.
It’s only dream, to understand and hold again the heart.
It begs, What is thought without feeling?
That moaning, morning flower
of elusive emotion.