Look
how inflated I am:
an alpha man
aired in his pride,
a manhole smoked in his passion
nightly bed of coal
glowed in the fire of dawns,
the scarecrow of barren fields.
I am a rock, a mountain
still minuscule
in compare with a sand in an hourglass,
the sip
that a momentum has partaken
from the spring of motion.
I am a loop
a circle, a clock, in the fabric of time,
spiralling dots, elapsing like doubt
in the conscience of consciousness,
the eternal thirst,
exhaust pipes,
a decalescent chimneys of desire
for you,
the desire of a desert
in every twirling thorn
every dehydrated sand
for untwirled drops
of
your
r
a
i
n
