Poetry without emotion.

A song,

stripped of its desire.

The only Holy place

is immolating,

so, we wait

for our turn

to burn.

Satisfaction

simple as a whisper.

Spit a little lie into the air.

Substance is a scent we’re recollecting,

reaching out and finding nothing there.

 

We got our signals crossed.

Was I sending?

Were you receiving?

We found ourselves

lost

in a galaxy of stars.

I reached out

and grabbed one

and it burned me.

Not a tragedy;

this is how we all go home.

 

Sing along.

Use the words you know.

 

HG – 2019