Insecticide #11

Siphon horoscopic future plans,
read me into this incantation,
reveal the names of God.

Whatever section of humanity
we base this old alliance on,
becomes barren rocky shore.

In the end,
the only thing we have
are the gifts we have been given,
and how we use them
in the time allotted us.

Abused,
mine were
and I am
bereft of wholeness, of being.

In the house, your doppelganger smiles,
but you are far from me.

And I write these words between us,
upon an open channel;
broadcast to the world,
and I don’t even know
if they will reach your eyes.

Vocabulary
regurgitated,
verse transmitted.

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