It Is That Below,
SomeWhere My Shapelessness Directs InTo Form,
Arriveing At The Fringes Of Bent Light To Where Ten Seconds Break,
Behind Blood Pulsateing InTo Woven Lineage,
As Time Crafts A Fleshless Escape Towards Another Mother’s Tongue,
And It Clings With A Senseless Instinct For A Breath Beyond Taste,
Fraying The Cords That Suspend…
…
And Yet,
It Is That Belonging…
…
Somatose And Sculpted Precedeing A Possessive Nature,
Alive As An Offering InTo A Different Slight Of Forge-Wroughten
Conditions,
Before Bone Crushed And Ground For An Unraveling River,
As A Seed Of Archetype To Where I Was Once Only ALone To Speak,
And It Lingers While An EndLess Obsession For All That Gives And
Takes,
Knotting The Words That Settle…
…
And Yes…
…
…
It Is That.
More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.