1512 and I – I cannot broach the idea,
I have no name in my head for this dream,
stars are evolving and we, oh sweet relief,
don’t matter as much as we thought we did.
In nightmares, I am caught on feeble sticks
and wolves’ subtle whimpers, they are as
maudlin as my failed, frantic mind, howl!
Holy chastisement for my wicked possibility –
the sun’s becoming of our greed, I can see
lines in between stars and swirls in the
universe, but I am blinded by virgo,
and Jupiter, her great glory self,
to speak my heart loud and clear.

1514 and I – I will have to die for this,
it is the only way out of this madness,
of rejection, that the same way children
spin in endless circles, losing their touch
on reality, it is the same, the Earth
condones the warp of time around blindness.

1516, my body shivers under possibility
and its crushing pressure, and everyone
is shouting obscenity and stamping blasphemy.
I am ungodly according to this life of mine,
and my proof is otherworldly –
we are not at the center, but we hold
the strings of fate and sin as one alike.

1543 and I have become so tired.
My voice has been quieted,
my heart has constricted painfully,
and wolves still whimper in my sleep,
aching for the moon and never reaching peace.
No one else listens to the wolves either –
we hold crosses to our chest to reassure,
yes, that God loves us dearly and
our souls will go to his gates of permission
and remain all-important but I will still
breathe and relieve myself of having to be
what this era, this society wanted of me,
we circle the sun with dirt and terrace,
and lunacy finds us regardless,
faithful to watching the world spin apart,
and breaking my heart to death.


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