Day two of my psychoneurosis;
The lady who wears the cloud
Says i'm going back to step one.
The paralysis of rusty joints inspire tears,
But the two muscular angels that transition my daily death
say it's psychosomatic.
I don't care,
As long as i get to envision
olive skin, almost neonatal,
only a part of the divinity that causes me to writhe.
But as i nonchalantly saunter back to consciousness,
The usual presage towards the truth.
My muses be my escort,
In a dream of a foamed drain bleeding black.