Made of concrete, made of gold

Naked blades soft and bit 
tremble, affix atop sharp, crystal wall 
canonical, liquid together in pressure, embraced 
unfit dreams steaming smoke to a face, 
like sensuality, dig a hole and jump in for object, 
aching still, twist to activity violently hence, 
harsh, transmogrified freak, evolving meaning. 
It’s all a lie, it’s wrong that I’m alive. 
Sarin breath, caution infects, coloring pale limbs 
posturing, hand to heart, living hole- 
vacant, no innocence left to animate 
presumption, divisions of person slipshod, glued in body- 
death lies and you don’t know what to make of it. 
And therein is beauty at the alive in verdant heath of a mountain 
where one may stretch to swallow, aspect bursting exquisite titian horizon 
subsisting imagination, as though there’s something more, 
transcendent of death, losing the self filling it in. 
All that is exquisite, beautiful flits fake through restless hands, 
all that is sensual, stirring sinks away at early disturbance of motion.