suffering is the new wave
of a heroic masculinity,
becoming a disguise that,
conjured up from shards of daydreams
dead before nightfall,
repeats itself
repeating itself--
chewing on the slender hairless arms
that waste away, still wondering
on ambitions never known or sought,
shielded by colors and noise going off
in the dark, saturated with faces we
won't remember much.
there's that gentle eye i saw myself in and
broke myself to see again,
so submerged in another set of
waxing narratives
and buried with boiled questions about
these
written memories ahead of me
that drive my eyes across more depths of beauty and
sin than i should know.
but some ideas i can't let go of
until i've gotten more.
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