Your eyes are dying portmanteau. Those starlights are growing dim with every passing lullaby. Our patience was compromised when you decided to photograph reality through fiction, but tonight spring will marry the atmosphere. A new born son will enchant our melanin and our muscles will grown in steroid directions, not because of the direness of the imminent decay of winter, but because of my right to be a part of this secular manifesto.

Your god hasn’t given me many chances at happiness, but fate is now coveted in stripes and white smoke. Just like penance, it is a choice I will dare to deform. Colors come and go, but there is a reason for the desaturated composition of my movements, as I have now the photons I need to digest the instability of what Moses called a path.

Sing to my consciousness now, feed my thrill. Obliterate the scorpions that have purged our vaccines and read my thoughts as I turn into the visions you neglect to see. Your god didn’t tell you anything about this, am I right?

The entropy of the earth is increasing with every second, but this scenario is still the same. You were the only beautiful thing time travel ever gave me, so why can’t you start believing in new deities? I found my own, and I offered her my art and my hand in marriage. Can’t you see past cycles? I own this manifest, your rules don’t apply to the truce I concealed with God.

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