upon reaching the open grave of lovers there faces were sown in literation.
the years of obligated fear they used each other as
excuses for manifested into coils of thread wrapping
there there face tightly together solidifying an existence.
as a life, as a person, a person who convinced another person there a person
they faced no abyss perhaps distain but not
the forlorn vacuity.
perhaps they settled for a face of thread instead of a
crown of laurels
and who am i to say bonding thread is less poignant
then laurels for what reason do we pursue any
decorative adornments.
show me a man bare and full, needless of decoration
and i will retract what i do not hide,
my own Inutile harvest of laurels.
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