There is the snake
and there is the amen
and perhaps
there’s not really
much difference
between the two.
Like you,
and the moon,
and how my longing
bleeds
a fugitive overlap,
i.e,
where exactly
does the queenly orb
of distant gold
end
and the girl
garlanded in blue roses
begin?
The whole thing
reeks of impossible,
of inscrutable pitch,
which forces me to sing,
to mate scars to music,
as if life had become
the raw means
for an ongoing mixtape
made on a pirated radio
for that girl
you want to crush
and pound
into moistened milkflakes
of powder
and inhale
between 3am
and yesterday.
Give me time
and space
and I will show you
beyond doubt’s shadow
where the snake
coils covertly
in the shattered
heart of amen,
where the girl,
mending fractures,
blends inviolately
with the moon
that becomes her
nightly.
Really beautiful
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Thank you, E.C. to the nth degree 🙂
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