The World of Myth Magazine

a quiet night.
even the candle flame isn't flickering-
think i'll just blow out its light
and turn down the radio bickering.
symphonic waste
between the two
goes back space
for what is true-
and the same discontented self
dismantles every shelf
of previous obsessions
contaminated with old confessions.
then your persuasions
window walk
in panes of pillow talk-
inside this how,
in here, in now-
where no mortal elements
can darken our consoled consents
with ribbons of ripped repents
that leave membranous scars:
and when they do,
they are no more than me, or you-
everyone is subservient to the stars

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