bitter

this detestable daze

it clouds these summer days of burning greens,
where i hide from the glaring sun
that inclines to melt the haze away.
god, i cannot think, i cannot reason,
i cannot but lay; victim to my snake pit stomach
that hisses other breaths astray.
a poison lays in the diaphragm
that numbs my oxygenated veins.
i lie still, paralysed in its wake,
mind left to wander; drugged as your tongue … 
on mine …
and wait for my limbs to burn, scorched through:
wondering why these eyes have overflown, wondering why my thoughts have overgrown,
wondering why the gardens of my mind;
– that which fosters ambition – have overblown.

… 
and it scares me still,
when i wake without a venomous wound – 
your impression on my arm in a morning rise – 
harkens me back to recovery pains …
living life without my morphine embrace. 
still i have told you, still i have warned you,
how my days shall shift to a sluggish pace,
a vestige of whispers like a gateway drug
a slurred aroma ebbs from an intoxication mug;
my venetian mask wanes further from life,
thus i wish to see no one, i wish to hear no one, 
fearful that my secret dam — 
that which ambition has caged — 
spill over my supplements of tryptophan
where only sediment remains …
nubs, powder; and cellulose in beige.
my withdrawals from your sedative touch
are violent yet tranquil; and human as such.

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