The subconcious breath of the lover thickens
and along the night screams with the diseased
French horn symphonies expelling
and transmogrifying octaves
of the subtle expressions of infinite existences
and the cycles are looping every ninety minutes
thickening along the veins
we walk along the dusty hallway of their dry collapsed urethra
our ears plugged with salt and snot
so we cannot hear these laughing souls
so we cannot percieve the sides
since we can only sigh when we can only see one angle at a time
the violet refractions of so many facets
the indigo tears of those which we could have taken
the ashen tiers of those by which we could not have come in the world
without their sacrifice or interpretations
that bring us closer not to the promise
but rather to the state
of absolute freedom.
