I wrote her my love poems for years
often in the rainy days inside
often with my consciousness
spilling to the walls
with black ink
running down into the sewers
becoming nothing but another dream
where you and I were heard drowning
as if at last becoming a masterpiece
like a concerto of free thought
cascading into singular ballets of lines
falling more like an improv of jazz
and the lyrics melting into drunken proverbs
neither of us are old enough to understand
like poetry that follows a single emotion
never changing to the next euphoria but always
just bland and boring rants of speech just like
a dictators lonely dream preceding onto a century
of dead wastelands and no religion and just that
human greed that washes over all the morals of
sensibility becoming eventually nothing special
like an eulogy spoken in free prose lowering all
these shakespearen connotations deeper into the
ground and engulfed by soil filling a casket of
weak bones whom never tried to test the limbs or
nerves being too nervous just to dance in weddings
only showing up briefly for that fifteen second kiss
of a female to a male or male onto a female becoming
the inevitable continuum of a species that know of God.
-V I L L A N U E V A
08.10.21
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