Brain matter longs for body temperature changes
And regular patterns of cross stitch bliss.
This subtlety is sin in it's conquering complacence
And sweats out the body into an unknown form.
Change
Me
Please.
Two isn't four and four is the number
That flowers should shed as they willingly end.
Layers of love that fall and re-form
Have faded with all the promises of fate.
Bend
Your
Knees.
Cut the straight and narrow straps that
Keep shade from the insects that live too long.
All the good ones come from a cold hard bone
That thaws with the melody of looking ahead.
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