of slithering across a page,
enchanting an aura. A metaphysical
scan of an interior
I am losing my self on each facsimile
The repetition of memory fades.
What would a twofold extent be without the original?
Here is my recklessness
I keep hunting words that I didn’t know existed
Actually, I am wearing my concrete shoes.
Struggling with my intellect
I ended a journey of unborn poems
The turbulent blood flow continues
With all its exaltation, years leave
to remind me, the privatization of my sexuality.