I suppose, then, that to forgive
You is expected. Not for
A lack of trying.
This has gone beyond far, beyond enough,
And the words cannot come
Smoother or faster. I know no magick.
To take me at my words, flow straight
Down the pages to something barely
Understood is a miracle.
There is no other liquid to describe it.
I can no longer hold it inside of me,
Just pray, pray and perhaps
The gods shall return.
I am no longer here to listen
But rather to instruct the natures
Of the sybaritic philosophers.
Forward, onward to another truth,
Another tale, another something
That is foreign to your eyes.
My language, here, beside you
Grows stronger, no help from the
Fungus growing on your back
As a result of your tales.
My eyes burn yet not as your silver soul.
Come forward and let me kiss you.
Lips made of impure metal.
Never was I ever closer to you.
(I have traveled for many miles . . . photo by Kimberly B. Richardson)