middle age

the new born
desires, a
free spirit,
the old soul,
won’t let it go.
i escape
my religion,
with it’s selfish,
hollow mouth.
that castrates,
anything good.
like the bleeding,
jesus christ,
that kneels
between my thighs,
in calvin klein
underwear.
the saint,
of angry dogs,
enters me,
each time
i breathe.
the sky,
is a well,
never empty.
of dancers prancing,
to a spoken
word,
chant.
their ponies,
displayed,
inside
the naked eye.
and a restless garden,
of flesh,
blossoms,
between my ears.
with old fashioned
imagination,
and just
a prayer,
i find myself
between a free spirit,
and letting go.

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