toxic clandestine love

if you ever
care enough to
stick your nose
out of that
pathetic, doleful
journey that you
decided, yet again,
to totter on with
your signature blend
of disappointing
apathy and pride
through the
layer of dust
that rests, tired
of resting, i
hope you mind
my protesting
while the rest
of this deformed
kingdom called
afflicted ignorami
rests in make-believe,
as sanity awaits
in prison and shy
altruism dies in
in a scatterbrained
concentration camp,
shrivelled and damp,
while valour is
hooded in pallor
and head over
heels for lorelei
scepticism:
another notch in
the belt for
stockholm syndrome
who lives in the
stained glass and
never leaves home,
watches sly over
doubtful white candles
all night and swallows
the flames like
crisp death when
daylight, and when
red clockwork rich
and the grey
clockwork poor,
come floundering
over their sins
though the door,
erudite broken
lies crushed on
the floor, their
pet god of
clockwork, breathes
taxes, ignore all
your feeble attempts
to be seen in this
brawl, blasé
adore; now what
would you call
a world where
hierarchy plagues
the salt water,
passion here
destined
lamb for the
slaughter,
and sweat of
the wary reflecting
the moon, trapped
in dewdrops
on cobwebs;
you burn out
too soon,
pretty sea, salted souls
masquerading above,
spy our radical
stupor, fair
frenzy thereof;
thirst us clandestine love,
toxic clandestine love.

T. E. Pyrus

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