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Nymph From Exodus
Are we less superior to ourselves than realization?
Our temporary shell, our salt, our generation.
Our streamers flutter like snow in Antarctica.
longing and valid expansion, made of mica.
Striving to liberate us, it rips apart its body.
Once again, envisaging us embody.
Systole, diastole, adventure indiscriminately.
The wide open oozes a scent of love imminently.
Shimmering between each of the drumbeats.
Summer, you are the windlessness of such feats.
We ate, kissed, cuddled, and then supped food.
A day's total is a unit of measure for what you lewd.
Need and desire exist in an interdependent reality.
We bury our bodies as a sign of our mortality.
The fate of our remains while wearing the shell
The land utters us the title of a spare body smell.
Synapses are memories, and we are waiting.
In order to cross its boundary, there is no gating.
Written: August 09, 2022
Copyright ©
Sotto Poet
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