for trancestors
Dead, you are my creatures.
Income elegy. I save you. I point
at the who-saved-who picture frame
sits empty, a pane of glass, a pool of water,
only water keeps us apart, my love,
myself. I am myself the boy I see.
The popular pronoun is now object
me. I, the abyss I'll never see
in this fountain dead, this glass empty,
this present where I portend my echo
to be you. Save me! You
gazing at myself as I'm dead.
Eros of erosion. The future has begun
its stiletto on cobblestone escape. You
gaze at myself like a fresh cut.
Fetch a fair price at market. I am
your bankable version.
I burn love in verse
for me, drown me for relief,
for a single kiss with what abyss.
With what abyss. Am I missing
everything, not to mention the point.
Stealth Narcissus by Jayson Keery | Sandalwood & Vanilla Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
