These facts do not really speak for themselves
In the cloud cover of this weather, on a rainy night
Whose dome still stifles us beyond mortal breath,
While pursing our lips, brooding in blue thought
Speaking musty history words, empty hypotheses. 

They do not hold in the crisp air of night dreams.
Truth is our viscous reality in the lower abdomen,
An open space where the breeze blows regardless.
Beauty is a reality that lay beyond the body’s crooks
In a niche where it all adds up under a petrified bone.



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