Neith

they just want to dream somewhere else
unless their vertigo plays patterns
existential fucking in their windows
they don't thirst where they pray

they are ethereal
(all displeased) these days.
unless they have their revelation their restrictions served like sausage
from relations or souls abnegated or introjecting i've obliterated them
with their moons faded buried in buildings in front of nightmares. their fields move, descended between cracks in the earth.

they don't cast shadows where they cure.
they just want to save. somewhere else.
all the plucked fish go to ice
with reptilian receipts
glowing in their maladies,
like other purgations.

i was cried by them once. a tear in the ocean. right in my armpit. i'm not lying and neither is she. sorry, she said

i squandered. you. were my freedom.