Recovery

Ailment, bane, nothing is profane

Anymore as you lay half in and half out

The door, severed by a threshold of

Appetency to audition before

The superior supplier of bedlams

And correspondences.

So you drift out to where the bruits are

Helpless complaints coming from

A body—doesn’t know it was created,

Transforming its curse to nurse the

Darkness it birthed: the celerity of

My hands defeats this plan to

Embrace the heart, for lack of

Followers, cleaves to the cockcrow

Of crescent options.

Circumvallating, cheating

Intelligence and all its fleering

Firmaments: so flexuous in its

Lay lenity: changing only to

Make up for a nescient simplicity:

Shit is shit, and I just need your

Motivation to wash my imbrued hands,

Stained with the love of our fantasy.