Smother.

I never learned
to love
these questions,

or adore
the unnamed
and

unborn

a dismal lack
of definition.

Passivity sinks
into blind

indifference.

A plexus
of desperate query
dissolves

into a
mistake of circumstance.

You’re the last
locked
obdurate door

where the serpentine
road home
seeps

into unhewn ground,

a beaten fist
against
insentient dimensions

of apathy

and I
am your gloved hand
over these

nervous lips,

a prayer
for better answers
than the
slight

whisper of
perhaps.

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One thought on “Smother.

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