but tensions seeks the torsion as their bliss—
the motions house the swagger in your hips.
in lightning storms, our hands are thick with blood
which heightens fires, burning with the flood
of rigor, odes to sweet despair from lips
that settle near the sights of moisture sour
as time's collection relates the stream of hours:
i stammer, moan, and let my voice bleed out.
the empty threats of deepened seams with bones
as bloodflow settles, as my finger groans
my weary eyes shall lay their sights which shout
through humid air, through thund'rous pouring rain
before our deathly cry, as our fingers strain