The Womb of Time
The womb of time.
It’s a comical concept.
Comical in a way of deflective desperation leaking out of the cage of my pores.
Comical in a way of pleaded abscond for an imaginative haze of a malformed paradise.
Comical in a way of plagued persecution to the oppression of my shards.
The indigo of the infinite blinds me with a clarity that deceives the wound of my dune.
The desolate certainty to my porcellanitic skin stretches in my ears as I surrender to fate.
The arch of my feet revise the pattern of the engraved, arctic fragments of your permanence.
I find my days blending together; a unition of the void’s contorted chains, embedded with the velvet coax of my blood.
The deliberate, eradication of isolation rings in my ears; a vibration of torturous branding.
The piano notes cry desertion down the hollow of my throat; an echo of futile promise.
The path of my violent fragility demands austere through my follicles; a frugal of fatal mortality.
The womb of time.
Get me out.
The womb of time.
Let me stay.
The womb of time.
Hold me forever.
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