Sometimes, I do not speak
of genuine things.
Such as skin or why
the moon shines on some
and not others.
Sometimes, I see the sick streets
walking like burnt toast.
Past the lonely and the possessed.
And everybody looks
disgusted and doomed.
Then, I awaken in a small bedroom
and a woman walks in.
Thorns and sticks matter no more.
Only the bloom and the passion.
​