FECKLESS WITH DISGUST

 All erasure of pain
is like the contrary of
dust that weighs
dark in my lungs
when I am 
feckless with disgust.

I stroke & poke
my loins before 
they tighten.

My feet stomp
fields of color
reminding me of
something I once knew.

Dying frees
the spirit
from the mind.

We plod along
regardless of
the pain.

Soon we grow
big & fat.

We stop
forgetting, far off
from whatever 
binds us
mindlessly
to empty space.

Beginning here
we reignite
desire.

We will surrender 
what is far from us
& call it love.

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