Dreams castrate the young of ambition,
whisking troubled thoughts away, implanting
euphoria in the place of realized contrition—
Doom is the only premise left unexplored,
when traction disengages the neurology
abandoned within those predestined to starve upon their own needfulness
Feral qualities sliver thin the mirrored gaze,
leaving the only interpretation the imagined
predisposition that reincarnates the deformations of the brain
Catatonia is preferable to the self-imposed restraints
that fit snugly beneath the seam-lines of our favorite
Clothes, leaving only the scents of wherewithal and apathy to fragrance one's ephemerality.
Shredding the fetters of the past is the only absolution we can deliver truthfully. Tiny renderings are the adipose reflections we blindly flee from, layering the tornado with a future sconce illuminated by the abandoned renderings of debris.
And then, other days, feel like nothing at all…