First, blame will pursue you for everything you can’t control
and everything you can’t control adds up to a magnified monster
beneath your dreams, magnified as one singular, pet peeve.
But what kind of existence is that? Does it make for adulthood
a well trained dog perhaps? An artisan of a war to come, however
small to come, treading lightly, but eventually exploding as an unforeseen bomb.
Then, this honeymoon of pull and submit, scared by scorn
restrained by the way space makes you regret, when the only
shame is in a smite, so sorry this will be your place. Inside and out.
The world will have its say on our marriage as if we invited them. Like a homemade porno.
After, if we go, so blind and mindless of our thoughts, so reckless
with each others existence, we so go anew, drunkard and stupid
suffering the end of a tale so tall that it allows us not to wonder
drowning our roots, our branches break with such blight
with no remedy to really mend, to mend us for the road that comes
it will be the proof of our submission.