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i feel it all
this holy night
this sacrilege
this war
as we follow the choreography
of the dance
of filth
i feel the awkwardness
i feel the shame
the mispronunciation
i feel the power
the promiscuity
all the misguided determination
we prayed and prayed for
we won the lottery
i feel you though i cannot feel you feel me now
there is no privilege
to the massacre
no accolade
for this ailment
the aorta overworked
stonewalled by desperation
sporadic with fatigue
i feel the push
i feel the throttle
blood cannot ever stay in one place
the moat must defend its kingdom
constantly
ferociously
feverishly
i feel nothing somewhere inside everything
it plays hide and seek
do you dare to care to find what’s hidden?
it runs in fear
yet it is the flower in which
the seeds of fear are born again
and scattered and annointed upon
the unfortunate and fortunate alike
everyone is afraid of nothing
and that is the sorcery
which binds us
which locks us
which seasons us
which flavors us
which binds us together
for all eternity
there is one letter short of a promise in promiscuity
- Chauncey Dandridge
