Saturday, December 28, 2019

Roughage

We are contained 
In the incense of our skin. 
Living to breathe freely
Through all things - felt,  unspoken. 
I wade into the roughage 
Seeking grammatical justice
Finding little appeasement 
In colloquial etiquette.

I want the murder of silence
To give birth to centrifugal forces
That will light the way for the animal in us 
To engage in wilder ecstasies. 
To ignite the flammable pools we've filled
With our unending leakage of dismay
Milked from duties met, 
As time yielded proven metaphors. 

Respect can lead to resurrection 
As cosmic interplay unwraps Eden
The willingness to advance further
Breeds. 
Into the eroticism of intellect
I swallow the ocean of you
To drink my fill of all things masculine, 
And moving. 

A mating pair knows, that even in their silence - verbose desire thrives
Adding weight to the heady ingestion
Of their moist existentialism.

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