If I get to the point where no ones’ love embroiders me,
I’d mix the oil, the clay, and color coordinate the sordid seams.
Then simply voice it, & wholeheartedly agree.
Tend to wounds, but then forget the ointment/gauze.
Intensely consoling. The pensive motions.
Embark through the darkness and depart from my esteem.
That’s the only thing keeping’ me going,
from disease the fleeting emotion you feel in your bones.
Like, deceiving, but more than, deceptions a curse.
It’s a deceptively curved timeline, where perceptions a blur.
It’s the way you make tye-dye, entrenching the shirt.
You mix a bunch of complexions and spin in reverse.
A fissure, hypnosis, once the colors combine, a mixture, fists closed-in,
a fuller divide. Null, but awoke. Dull, not asleep.
Where the knots in your stomach turn to contortionist schemes.
It’s full-blown. Bow-ties and croissants. An assortment of odds,
mathematical rain-cap. Getting even to stay glad, even after the pay-back

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