BASKING

My words come in fi-

ves, of bunches like flowers that remi-

nd me of funerals, I

haven't been to many.

 

If death do us apart, then what about the afterli-

fe? What if then I

am still deeply in love, would I then cry?

Ponds of tears,

 

Faces the sky

A reflection of the bri-

ghtness of a tungsten li-

ghtbulb waiting to blow a fuse.

 

Overpower your enemies but be ki-

nd. Your complex mi-

nd, free and wi-

ld, like global warming on our melting glaciers.

 

The rising sea levels or my

rising exasperation that our lie-

s to ourselves create a facade of ignorance that we are unable to fi-

ght, and so we bask in our ignorance,

 

Like we are in sunli-

ght. We are charred but we seem to by-

pass, a purge induced by

the atrocity that is me and you.