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