I am not asleep.

Just past half five a.m. I am less than gravetized.

Little white dust, a lust for pure thought, an edge or

some disfigurement. An absolute poem

that will make a freak of time and jazz

is the protagonist aware of the power it holds

on these insane moments

of sniffed muse and

skin dropped silver bombs.

 

Because sometimes I am that child again

seeing people not as human but as

terrestrial instigators

afraid of something about to happen,

terrified of a slow leave into nothing.

 

The child sighs in deep grip

dark shine bellow

for not observing enough

of this disaster, this planet.

 

I have

this body, this obscene vessel

to maintain and I just

want to close my eyes

and tell that child

once and for all

 

that everything is not going to be okay.