in the things,
gone and done,
when she admits,
to the obvious shifts,
in the gazes of,
the Almighty Ones;
finally be outdone,
deep inside of,
the smoking barrel,
of a black market gun,
will she submit,
to the things,
that she’s let,
grow into beasts?
just to make,
the day will come,
a day that makes,
today seem sweet,
like times of joy,
full of ease,
on your knees,
a day will come,
that defines suffering.
Minds alight, we fight the fight, even
when we are overlapping each others dreams.
Dreams of different faces, different places, but
still back to back, on the attack, and irreversibly linked.
Blue and green, like the northern lights,
Untouchable, and wanted.
Forged by the universe and the
stars that aligned in passing, long enough so that
as the night sky suffocated the day
we made eye contact and the rest was
Pinky swear? With sewn on fingers,
lost in die hard losing of bets, with guns in the air
and the smell of burning rubber telling us where
to go. Where to run. Where to point the barrel.
The lamb and the bear, cuffed to the same chair, we
will always be. Always share, and always know,
how long to hold our breaths, beneath the surface
of the explosions of the tides, until we can hide
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