modern romance would be cool if it was like dating on club penguin.

december 18th, 2018 — 10:09 pm.

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above my bed hangs

an acolyte holding sorrowful sixes,

plaintive afflictions stricken

to the sickness

that hospitalized my perception.

overcoming the subjections to your convictions,

burning the bridges that lead to treatment

instead of being entranced by your self-deceptions.

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i toured the light; so many foreign roads,

for myself,

forever ago,

and yet, i often think about the cherry tomatoes,

the potatoes, and the volcanoes;

a garden in full bloom can never feed you.

only love is all maroon

and soon these plants will erupt too.

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i didn’t need you that night,

not gonna need you anytime,

despite all the rhythms and rhymes i orchestrated,

or supposedly the ones you conducted through me,

castrating what should have been

celebrated as poetry,

emotionally detaching myself from

the parish’s melody.

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breathlessly, i climb

over the zeal of prose and hymns,

so I can depose this,

partial to the bleeding vines

that i no longer associate with.

at least, that’s my current fate.

at the top of zion i looked through the priest’s innocence,

and at once — I knew — I was not magnificent.