by Lane Culton
You poison me with your notice, your plea makes
my insides bleed until I am as beautiful as blood,
geysering words like how surging ambition geysers
poetry, an inverted disease which I right till I read,
ritual: the beginning of confusion, the husk of faith.
Despair and desperation’s baby hovers somewhere
between them, as well as hope and hopelessness’s
momentous triple-point at which I decide to define
self-conception by visiting new places in my mind;
rescuing this social outcast. Dissonant and sideways
spurting rain, I have wanted your greatest misfortune
to be being grounded and re-fused with other orphans
of your former cloud. Like lightning, I’ve only been
myself in brief brilliance, bright moments that singe
into my lidded eyes false visions of memorized light.