A Nihilistic Interpretation of Love

11 September 2018

I took aim, and released.
Mushroom clouds snapped apart;
a wafer-thin crunch,
a child treading on dry leaves,
dust gliding aimlessly against light.
No exit wounds.
It is whole and nothing less, nothing more,
until questions nag loose skin on your gums,
and patience condenses on bathroom mirror.

Hesitation sails every breath you gift,
and protects the lungs while
crushing the ribs.
How will you forget
the sun sitting on your lap in winter?
As you call the mushroom clouds away,
as the fumes suffocate Hesitation, and
bright bids well wishes to dark,
acquaintance demands no loyalty.

I take aim, and release.
There was nothing in front of me,
the mushrooms cannot grow,
my jaw did not crumble,
the milk will not pass its expiry date.
Façade is relative to a recognised embrace
of the honest arrow once shot,
the tail that leads,
the soil it pierces,
and the world it fails to madden.


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