clean miss

this lawlessly fallen world
of caked lies,
awfully sweetly
frosted and iced,
we find by disguise
has been filled with

holes

each one of us fits
in an endlessly
dropping miss

slipping past
each others' souls;
and there are no controls
for this.

No reality
- check this: blank.
You could literally fill
in any amount
you thank.

It is gratitude
makes it real. And that
plus the cost of
whatever you're willing

to give,

you feel.

Which values its worth.

This heart's forcing
howling hormones through
into synapse twitch
and bliss and red
periphery closing
enraged in a mist

which

after the curse,
we never in calmer
moments would wish.
Or see any reason for.
But this.

This

is the undying wish
coming in fulfilled. You and me
against the willed, we are puppetry
at the highest mark
of lowest art

in this middling spill. And we have

such charge
and call,

we can hear. We could have:

to part

in a miss
so near