what a nice thing

it is

to exhale.

The lungs that cool

the deep furnace in my soul,

cannot always rely

on a consistent cadence,

they sometimes hold

much too much in and

for much,

too much

long.

and I am happy to see what

I think this is.

The heretic and the broken self-

immolation., and the

amnesia, can't forget

the amnesia.

And as the gold leaf starts to flake, off

the soon to be demolished facade, I look up and

remember that I find gold quite tacky, who

the fuck did that? It's amazing what you find

when you begin to awake, after

the cocoon begins to crack, soon

electric color will flap and fly

away.

Last night I was convinced the words had been

destroyed. Tonight suggests that they

were most likely annoyed, they get

this way during gestation.

and tomorrow, well fuck, I won't

pretend any news from there, but

I will hope to see you.