That Thing, This Thing, let not Everything

The Thing is asleep. Comfortably wrapped in Her bedsheet , trickling in parts into the cotton bottom of the mattress It is silent, refuses to be awakened. She cannot sleep in the same bed, It causes Her to sleep with it. Hence awake. 2:17am Spirit calling. Spirit & Thing once were the Same. Spirit believed in Thing and She suffered. The count is not important here. Many times is enough to know. Spirit can thwart Thing but won't. She realizes Her reminiscent belief when It gently rummages the strands of her flowing raven hair whilst in bed in the Afternoon. Noons are safe, there's no Grim Fate in them. Nights want to eat.Early Mornings too. They bring lot of disomfort. Thing has to Arrive. Spirit has to Sleep with it for a Night, caress It , causing to wake up anon sans the Decadence which Thing is popular with. She can't remain nocturnal, it's not Her nature, she has to Win Thing, Reunite again. Wake Thing before It soaks the matress with Grim Serum.Nudge Spirit to share the bed with Thing before she bleeds her heart dry, emptying the clandestine Affection for Thing.She believed in It not Once but...anyway the count is not important here. Many times is enough to know.

Macy and the Good Thing

Trickle in, trip, collect trinket. Walk on. Throw away. Shun all. Unbelong. Is it the lapiz lazuli you want? Gather to judge your arms’ might, release to free your mind. Come Macy, come. With pictures of smiling faces in your house you sang the blues for money. Realize it’s not your call. The power of One is stronger. Collect your grace and come. Hither is where your materials melt ; embrace this Circle.Have no shame in being a barren dune. The clock’s hands are sweeping minutes off it’s face. The pace will eat you. Time extinguishes in no time. Hurry.Macy’s here. It’s in her touch ; devoid of the currency itch. I love this landslide. The rich plummet is like a gathering force of water –heavy clouds ready for a shaman pour. Exclusively humble. God bless Macy ; she is an oasis now.

let the pope have some parking space.

If you are thinking of The Pope, then you are , well, wrong. I am not endowed with the knowledge of his habits and habitat. i am not fascinated by his existence. So a wrong person to be commenting. This is a pope who needn’t be spelt with a capital ‘p’ . but to me, this pope is as spotless and needn’t be dissected to be proved unsullied. Virgin. With him beside you,i can go on breathing, giving verbal shots lesser exertion. Miniscule statement length, logic understood, nevertheless. He believes in underdogs. He believes he is a phat phish. Period. He believes the small fry can enwomb caviar. He’s My pope afterall. Ladies and gentleman, make way for pope. Get him some parking space. Help him land. Allow him to emerge. He’s a little guy no more.

left midway.

my fright has been smudged with uncertainty. i prefer uncertainty to fright. believing i am better off. the embers are ashes now. they can do no harm. no cause. no effect. hearth reignited. the newborn sepiac confettis are less fiery. they shall evolve. i know. hoping for a holy rape this time. waiting for a chaste dissection.

coming back.

i thought the embers have long since died at my feet. they evolved at midnight. they don't seem gluttonous anymore. i am afraid, still. oft as it has been, shear blades ; particularly scissors have clipped me. this time i felt uncut. yes. this could be an attempt to get me numb first. i still don't know. am endowed with immense potential to masturbate inaudible pain. realize. i am awake. do things that you want to. have clocked myself. i am aware. one more mistake and i masturbate. cautious.