Part One: Lay Lines of a Philosopher and a Romantic.
We exist, evidently, within a universe made
up of arguments.
People bickering and bickering until the
light fades off and flickers off into the twilight,
We breathe premises like they were oxygen.
We melt under reason like ice,
Our bones shaking with the desire to understand,
To do something other than questioning our own form
of reality.
His hesitant tongue flickers softly against his
cracked dry lips with a form of incandesce so
memorable, that it seems I have forgotten my
own name.
There's nothing I can do here, no space to squeeze
my composing body into, nowhere to stack my
ossein cage on top of itself like it were sand on someone
else's shoreline.
I cannot expect such simplicity.
I can no longer run from it.
He folds his hands together like origami and suddenly
my mind preaches its own argument:
Inductive:
He could hold me steadfast, steady,
My body vibrating all my irrational secrets
that these cells can no longer try to swallow.
My anxious mind would buckle, whispering
perspired confessions in large quantities.
All premises state that I could learn to love him.
The conclusion utters that I do not deserve to understand
what love is.
Counter argument:
The romantics shall inherit the earth, but only after their
hopes are buried in it.
YOU ARE READING
Vultures And Other Vulnerabilities.
Poetry"I hope it gives you the same satisfaction as finishing a really good book, Or kissing someone, and not walk away feeling like they have taken something from you."
