Friday, June 26, 2015

secret messages.

there is a snake i maintain
a correspondence with.
i want to know what it wants. i'm confident

this is for survival.

once a week, the snake and i meet

inner-sufferings. it swallows the mistakes
of survival: asking for help,

admitting there is no self-imposed
light. i just can't wait until i keep dying

until i return to the original form,
the embodiment of light-

a condition of beyond and all:
of it, what is born and made from such-

that which the people see past
voyeurisms into of each other-

the obvious knowings
and their
frenetic unveiling of discoveries.
it is compost.
compost has been waiting,

being a miracle, personally expanding
free will, but only

denting into a surface, feathers touching
softly at most, light and lively.

but i do not like that. i'm
unable to be touched by such frivolities.

all bets are off. i am the devil.
it is not a big deal.
i am the devil

returning to the original embodiment of light.