Static Pleasure
The crisp buzz of static promises
bombarding the senses like a stirred swarm of hornets.
Hollow whispers soaring on corruption's breath
and alighting on wistful limbs,
plaguing their natures with a parasitic postulate.
Branches rustling and undulating like windswept hair,
splayed out in the infinite chasm of life.
Struggling, clinging, grasping,
begging for that which is not to come.
That which is mind not body.
What is and isn't.
With bone crunching cracks, those enlightened derelicts
are liberated through swift debilitation, careening
through the grasp of delusional, honeyed fingers,
avoiding eternal charm's seductive caress.
Befittingly of those who brave the bubbling
wellsprings of scalding truths, the misty embrace
of tainted pleasure ignores their writhing presence.
Mocked by those comforted in a sensual pall of deceit.
Their forms sinking into the mud as the sun trembles on horizon's end
rinsing and bathing among worms where freedom
exists in its pallid dwelling.
Where the static can't find them.



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