November 29, 2013 § Leave a comment
art that remembers itself into the marrow of my mind
as I am commanded to forget myself
will not be my saviour. let no man deliver me from
or unto myself. war, war against the passage of time
that defends itself against the study of souls
until everything is lost to it; you, me, Watchman.
not every memory I have begins at Genesis.
october. sixteen. eight pm.
nesting as I sleep out the storm I am
living an ontogenetic dream in
which wings are wings, nothing more, or less
and on parting, every memory I own begins