An Elegy for Summer
This is euphoria: the art of painstakingly purging blistered and withered melanin. This is apocalypse: the wait, waiting and waiting for the tear of vapours, of sweat and oil. Summer is judgement season, death and resurrection.
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These Eyes
In this ferocious ocean called Existence,
this gaze speaks of a perplexed chi, an ennui,
beyond what the fibers of my iris and the peripheral vision can convey.
Pay heed, these eyes are starting a Freudian conversation:
“I dare you to consume
the super-ego in me,
the salt in my retina,
and my vulnerability.”
beyond what the fibers of my iris and the peripheral vision can convey.
Pay heed, these eyes are starting a Freudian conversation:
“I dare you to consume
the super-ego in me,
the salt in my retina,
and my vulnerability.”
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