skin

morass of despondency;
asphyxiation has me in a choke hold
and so my faltering extremities scrape the stratosphere, searching for undertone
in these disconsolate byways.

but i would be lying
if i said some nights i didn’t still construct acropolis on atmosphere 
and i would be lying to myself 
if i denied the visceral velocity that came hand in hand 
with neoteric possibility, and
i would be lying
if i claimed i didn’t still wonder, [didn’t still hope]
for anamnesis in that carapace.

for the ability to arouse a scintilla
of my arcane and eternal desideratum.