My sheets, vacuous, pink, and
moist like my brain as my
skin seeps sweat into the
cheap, somehow distant
stitches; I'm ponderous at best,
worrisome at my worst and
I wonder vaguely where
I'm taking me, sans even
particles of direction,
particulates of thought or
conviction, passion for the passionless
piety that is the inanity
of this existence deemed humanity,
a rampant misnomer donning
ramparts and heartlessly
heated dodgy glances.

Whether I'll have
water or wine
is a sad conversation,
the duration of desperate
thought clamoring like
teenage burglars and screeching
to a weary, pensive position
of violent indecision.

We, as divine entities
and perched precariously,
pontificate to preachers our sins
and run to commit them again,
like animals in sand, unaware
of our asses in the air.

Breathe life, breathe sky,
I'll choose wine and
find someone for the night.

I've been vulnerable and stared
as the people passed by,
scared to even squeak a
greeting lest I find that
no on cares,
as divine entities rarely do.
I'm small,
maybe even foolish,
but I only want what's fair.

My sheets have gone cold.