Born Folklore

Moment to moment we want to suffer under sensations of tortured hollow bod.
To feel pressed tension of constellations making a warm bed for two to greet in secret patients.
And the cold is blooming the field of where we laid in realization of who we were. 
Now we have missed tones of honey from white lilies and we’re confessing the confused pain from each yellowed jackets last puffy armed subconscious’s running meaning death with the collided vehicles.
Wait for the exhausted thump of city child and country toy to be once again played by the intense stance of harnessed old teen.
In her own mind the pressures of window’s buildings are shattered by the banked redundancy of the mass norm.
And all that is wanted is free speech of intensified pounding organ verging to be the homicide beacon of the life of me and my relentless tries.
For all we want is for arrived stations to be calm.
We  wait for our home.
I futilely try, as do the eggshell steps of your toes to be as shaped with timely care.
To make it a dream and we sleep through the hours of depressed barks of homeless dogs.
Gambled calls ruining ruined sun’s baby’s crawls to our connection of skipped beats flowing the blood until diseased minds massacre the aged eyes.
Yet the tries infinitely circle the cause and still questions dead lives.
Don’t give the broken necks forced to the sight of skies the chance to break the lesser known story of the creation of tasty bedroom talk.
We are the born folklore the chapters are pleading to base their lives on.
What will give?
For my presents can’t package the low come by of chatter lady’s demands.
Bingo.
Sorrows become the preachers go to move, and the applauds miss treat the stains of sore wood.
So, let us make the pack of nonstop graduating split ends and fall in love over and over again.