What is it?

It's in the way mercy knows no name in our callings, the way we reassemble our ornaments to give ourselves the organized assortment we lack in our heaving contrasts.

It knows our disarray is but a speech detailing our journey too the duvet covers wrinkled and woven between our flailing limbs.

It burdens us with seconds that mindlessly flutter away with a breath.
It needs our nourishment the ungentile movements we break against our bones.

It needs to feed on longings known and waiting in patience for the moment home is home.

It glistens in our saturated thoughts dripping our distortion to the tormented grounds.

It empowers our pivoting stance to coddle our rebirth on the alter of reinvention.

It reitterates the calculated ratios divided between promise and collaboration.

It knows the bask of our aurura illuminating on the stoned mural of our reference.

It is victorious in its rambling to the center, demoralizing our provocative rituals with nimble froths of mouth.

It hurdles the obstacle of our inflictions, derobing the heart to its fragmentation in cavities of ravishing astounds.

It plummets to the depths of the frail handed trials, unwrapping them from the riddles that bind them to drowning in saliva building in the silenced.

It insinuated high tide orbitting in the starlit skies between heavens and hells in our consumption of flesh in the forbidden nights.

It is corrosive in nature deteriorating the burdens one layer at a time, a rose unwilting in its break from decay.

It bares a story in its pen, its ink scrawling the pages birth to tomorrows, remove the warning labels from our hearts .

It conjoins our thoughts in tune and carries our weight upon it's tongues savoring the vindication.

It is only present when allowed, it is always allowed, doors always open...even when locked, no invitations needed to announce its presence.

It just comes...in waves, in moments to exaggerate our difference in its webs.