Bubble, my little tendrils of hysteria.
Bloom and crawl, Withdraw
Down my inner arm.
Coupons for freedom and other irredemable promises of hope,
You tickle the soul that is not there,
You reawaken the wings I cannot
(Will not?) Stretch.
For Gods! For dieties once perserves
By shining fruit, by the tree with life,
Bubbling hysterically at the roots.
Fulfil your own potential, awaken my
And chill the desires you so thoughtlessly bestow,
As careless as Passionflower vines
Growing wild and unleashing butterflies
Up my inner arm.