Sacrilege

Mid of the better sun,

illicit murmuring and chirps of the doves,

pleasant day in the turmoil hours,

blood relations or what could have been,

guided by a testing rise of the skies;

happy pills,

long miles,

backpacking distances,

delusional smiles,

unsaid metaphorical bliss,

free to breathe,

summed up.

Too young for all these tautological ends,

losing identity,

losing mumbles,

yet all to present,

only to show deference,

only to be seen insurgent,

tangential relationships,

too saccharine to last,

but the premise was already made by her.

Introspective night,

with back-lit buttons,

flux,

and 108 keystrokes per minute;

digression was always more intriguing,

thanatophobia was miles away,

an addiction well worth cultivating,

indeed, sacrilege.

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