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Hot As Cold Wax
Folder:
The Rushing Stream of Desires
Hot as cold wax, blue as the sun.
The forgotten tribes running, running, running.
We are the children of deceit.
We are the unborn ambitions
of love-struck demons
who attacked the
village walls.
Calling for help, screaming for help.
Rushing like snails to doom, to doom, to doom.
Racing cars around a track.
Broken shadows that will
never admit their pain.
Their shallow eyes masking
their glancing vibes.
We are the perfectly formed cells
of disintegrating morals.
We are the freshly turned pages
of books left littered
on a library shelf.
The frozen popsicle is melting, melting, melting.
Shifting from down to up, from up to down.
Back and forth, forth and back.
Holding symbols high
as if they could
actually become
alive.
Leaping lies
from a religion.
We are chaste and we fornicate.
We are pure and we destroy.
Hateful windows left open to
let in the insects who
refuse to die.
They jangle the nerves like fire.
Burning, burning, burning the
skin. Burning the eyes.
We cannot see. We cannot feel.
We cannot be all we can be.
We are evil and we are good.
Empty and full.
Hot as cold wax, blue as the sun.
The forgotten tribes running, running, running.
