Fisolo

2012-11-28 | 4:41 a.m.

'Don't you see,' he cried
It is the unimaginable
to those who can scarce percieve to imagine.
'There is more-' He pleaded.
He pleaded with wet palms
and I knew my face was dry.
'Who would think, in life...'
That a thing would be?
But that is just what life is, if one can concieve of that
which births understanding.
And fall, fall, fall
I'm sinking
'You won't touch such a golden little bird'
O Fisolo, the first and correct.
My scarred fingers were now expressed
and my palms were wet
and my face was wet
the light above was only a hazy star.
Breathe it in.
The sexual tension and music and the lonliness and absurdity, a tar-like cocktail
of disconnection from makind,
streamed through my nostrils
and poured into my lungs-
Till I did breathe my last
and I
am
sinking

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