Plebs would continuously keep dropping
Love bombs, drawn with fiber optic crayons
That would sound, smell, taste, look and feel
Different depending on
The person’s auric light,
Their kin, filled with more of the kind of fright
That is felt when everything that you thought
That was beautiful and good and real, just
Suddenly wasn’t.

“Do you know what it’s like?”, the storytellers question,
But their lovers, cold, still, and silent, elicit
Hollow responses, even after having been quaintly
Given a taste, knowing, on the superficial plane.


Strands of Spider’s Silk

I can hear them
Tell me I am a fool
For chasing you;
For grasping so dearly on
To strands of spider’s silk
To keep me from falling
Into what could be
Impending doom
You claim,
But I would rather live each
Putridly tormenting imagined hell
Than live in the reality
Where we never
Spoke through
The internet.