junenoongloom 2-minute poem

Inside,

words born of electric lights

are clamoring for more

attention.

Those walls and desks close in

they seem to rise

each every way you look.

A screen is poor substitute

for what a flower knows to do

without effort or design;

don't wait until you break:

this tension

is one more warning sign.

Let's go somewhere

and skip this silent hum of wires:

my mouth is yours;

your hands are mine

to celebrate Desire.

(eik, 2010)

 
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