december 18th, 2018 — 10:09 pm.
above my bed hangs
an acolyte holding sorrowful sixes,
plaintive afflictions stricken
to the sickness
that hospitalized my perception.
overcoming the subjections to your convictions,
burning the bridges that lead to treatment
instead of being entranced by your self-deceptions.
i toured the light; so many foreign roads,
and yet, i often think about the cherry tomatoes,
the potatoes, and the volcanoes;
a garden in full bloom can never feed you.
only love is all maroon
and soon these plants will erupt too.
i didn’t need you that night,
not gonna need you anytime,
despite all the rhythms and rhymes i orchestrated,
or supposedly the ones you conducted through me,
castrating what should have been
celebrated as poetry,
emotionally detaching myself from
the parish’s melody.
breathlessly, i climb
over the zeal of prose and hymns,
so I can depose this,
partial to the bleeding vines
that i no longer associate with.
at least, that’s my current fate.
at the top of zion i looked through the priest’s innocence,
and at once — I knew — I was not magnificent.