Insecticide #22

Tied; but not blind, not eviscerated.

And the calculations we had made
while shooting stars with our laser cannon
proclaiming Kierkegaard’s last stand.

The white noise dissipates into the East,
where the wise men traveled from,
on that blanket night that had a never ending moon
to shine.

But you won’t hold my hand,
and say to me,
you love me.

And right now,
that’s all I want.

Someone to seize the four winds for me,
to rebuke the sands’ few last drops within the glass.

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