two in the morning
the hour of unmooring
and sordid self-sanctified litanies of lament
a restless contortion condemned
to weak flesh
And pensive delusions
of dreams death and somnolence
vying for conquest compliant
in courtship of heaven’s duress
with static distortion
the cries since impending
have rendered the dawn sempiternally unsound
as whispers she once left
to toil within
the tempest eye
where the star’s
lonesome hearts dwell
on waves of her lips
wisps of wistful prose
haunting perception
felled cowardice kisses
transmuted
adrift between boundaries
of bold indecision
dare told by none
writhing long
in scorching depths
arriving at naught
but poise fraught with a bold thought
to win the morn
a toll was then taken
far greater than fate
inundating our soul
Max, or Not 