(no subject)
I can feel my heart
(theoretically)
as it slows itself
in preparation for my
melancholic hibernation
There were my
grandiose intentions
lost, now
in the presence of nothing
the world.
Your sweet foreign melodies
enslave me like
November
Chemical ambivolence
envelopes my being
and my non.
Hence, there are
tremors
treatable, they say.
the world moves (barely)
to your pulse
your undistinguishable
vibration
So careful as to go unnamed
flashes like
lightning through the
red sheild that is
my chosen oblivion.
I think back to home (gone, now)
and how perhaps it
wasn't so grand as in my dreams