Blind Men Tracing the Circle

That granite-lipped cliff of a voice, so deep its drop gives a boy over to heartbreak, cracking open all of his thoughts, splitting into titanic fragments the ice of his sinking heart, parts of what he was before falling for him, that desert known as Adam—
          Into his cavern throat soaks a wandering word hurled forth by gamboling hordes who sought ages ago to undertow and unwind him in their current, there dwells his sentience: his voice knowing it’s love, not wanton mistrust guiding him; it’s this want of coupling crushing him.
          Adam, handling shattered draughts of what wisdom could be dredged from the netherfolds of what others told him would not work out if spoken, he pored over his pages unholiness which broke; climbed up into my thoughts, and there Adam said it, that flood he spoke—
          ‘Let us take hands and cast off this chain reprimanding us; let us change this, our magnanimous endurance of unmerited suffering and suffer to come unto us better things. Scale the wait dragging off our vagrant eyes into the grasp of someone else and save ourselves.’
          Reverberating, permeating every angle of our crooked place, I fell in the wake of Adam’s embrace; a sermon slurred in the rosy-fingered cave painted rawest pink with the earliest trace of our discarded race. A parting of a thousand tributaries contributes to memories of our mistakes.