Wax Fruit

In a time of your pinwheels, your blue notes,/I stand under the viaduct, /hoping someday for your respect,/I’m searching for secret vials /that hold the essence of your evidence./ I looked so hard; but never found it,/ I decided it wouldn’t happen,/ in the lesser bible I wrote, /crooked and valued predictions/ of the soft contours of people,/who roll their tongues, /then blow it all/ to bits and smithereens./ You deal, as I allow you to roam through me,/ I bask in the warm horror you bring . /The taste of cake served at your funeral ,wax fruit on the tables /but I don’t put trust in your fairy tale./Love starts and ends here; /it continues to win by a hair.

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