The matrix of our spirituality,
where death and God make contact with
the seven heavens and nine hells.

And as primality speaks of incoherency,
ceramic shatters; leaving only blindness
and incarceration.

From the shards of loneliness,
an angel trapped in the body of a bee;
stings,
uplifting my heart
in what seems to be

An inoculation sent from on high.

Her nails,
dug in flesh;
wounds,
of the obsessed.

And the seven hills,
gather in my breath
as I continue
on the path of death’s
descension.

I have not loved
like the quagmire,
a programmable sword
thrust into her stone;

Its beauty is in the intellect;
and there’s a phosphorescent
stalemate
sitting at the front door
of the theater.

Exemplary concealment of emotion;
the biometric paradigm shift as passkey
yields to fingerprint recognition; to
curdled milk on the tongue.

You are young,
and I am younger;
so let’s regain our
strong composure.

Idled in time,
stepped in rhyme,
to acclimate to
frigid notions of solitude.

You are my spark,
in the darkness of an unlit room.
Cell.
Hell.

And kindling cooks your mysteries,
prepared for the long trek into co-dependence.

Mastery over words,
over swords; of heartbeats
and impurities of thought,
could not
destroy
our transcendent fire.

The shock
of firecrackers
lit on New Year’s Eve;
while we drink champagne.

And I,
falling asleep at your breast,
dream.

Of new beginnings;
and birthing stars.

The cleavage near my face,
beneath your firm embrace,
a cup of passion, and of lust.

Hurry, we mustn’t
worry; or we’ll drown out
the lightning and the fire in the sky.

And I;
will kiss you before God.
and pray love lasts until death.

Preparing for Stage 4

Our love is a hashtag gone viral.

And its repercussive blows,
it is expended, rejuvenated, and explored.
I never will ignore you.

But bounty in a lavish age,
while girls play dolls and boys are gay;
this transformative reaction
to necessary inaction;
causes justification of an illusive strategy.

My mouth is so dry,
I am thirsty for your lips;
for the measure of your hips,
and my lock of your hair,
and a photograph of your face
to turn my emotions into words.

Run emotions into entropy.
And spread myself; these wings of love,
so I may carry the message of a dying star,
burning hot and wild in a black and frigid night,

Your touch drives me mad,
because I can’t have…

You.