Every time you spoke to me it felt like you aerated me.
Every gesture, ingratiating yourself, with your dilapidated
Words, overthrowing me, circadian, pressured, my hands
Wouldn’t find their way to my ears. The heart is the easiest target.
Never emetic. Always eroded. From the outside. Never touched. Always
Detected. The weak lollop around its capabilities, it sees the best in every
Single approach and ornament. The heart never gets anxious, no, it’s the
Head and its submissive images to the outside. Infiltrated, the hyperbolic grove
Of orange spitfires and fuel, the blanket swallowed by the epileptic tempest,
Mummified, suffocating, vibrant in the darkness and cinnamon diseases.
“Lilac / Siren” by Mikhail Vrubel (1856-1910)
