Convene

I don’t believe, I think
We’re the Gods on the brink of remembering

Bachelor number four
You I just adored
Holding it together
So many things clever

For a few days of transient pleasure
Then start again
Cowardly pretend

Naughty, naughty, naughty
You’re the life of the party
A chronic case of The Velvet Rage

When you’re old and ugly
Love will be convenient for you

Bachelor number Me
Brokenness glamorized
Romanticize the demise
Magnetize the crimes

Duality capsized
Feelings conjured
Without stimulation
For magik manifestations

I don’t believe, I think
We’re the Gods on the brink of remembering

Bachelor number 14
Instantly recognized
Intangible surprise
An Indigo realized

A revelation arrived
Too easily defined
Overwhelming my eyes
Blinkered sublime

My intuition surmised
Predicted your guise
Your hypnotic eyes
Gliding inside

Sounding too picky
Only you specifically
Not a fantasy
Just fortuitous destiny

Now that I told you something
It’s all up to you

Now that I told you something
It’s all up to you

© 2021 In The Throes Of