safe travels, kristov.

poised smoldering
or
fire
he enters rooms like
madness twined

i’ve watched him dance the dance
of the wage slave
blackness drawing around him
not like night—ordeath—but
rather the sexual-crevice of a
belladonna’s fruit

the aching reach towards
a greater-knowingness-cum-truth it
saturates him for
the ride to Damascus
aches our bony thighs.

you’ll
see him smile like a streaking
dust-rock through atmosphere(aflame)
into a world you thought barren
but so full of

feet hit pavement again
and he squares shoulders,
sets jaw,
begins
to journey

a leaf in flutter with no wind.
a branch in currentless-stream.
my truth,our truth,his truth:
we are the god.