Beneathe

I am lost In my sexuality,
  Swimming beneathe a dark hole of lucid dreams
And vivid memories.

I breathe the flash liquid of deprivation
And cling to the memory of hands on me at 4...
Or was it age three or six?

Their faces I remember but their fingers I feel all over again,
  As vivid as though it were yesterday,
And I am back there

Suspended in that moment in time.

Scoffed, and scorned, I see through a veiled glass, another world between you and I.

I can almost touch it, stretching, reaching, in the in-between.

Always searching for ways to make sense of it,
  Always wandering in wonder.

Though it be a blemished world, there is no denying some Godhead beneathe the beauty, of any single thing.  Something sacred lies beneath each surface

  And I am swimming in reds and liquid deeps, refraining from lingering
Here

Too long.

I am a rebel, perhaps, whom hates this body...but I seek refinement.  Humility.  Servitude.  

The deep is nothing I can not handle.

The Wine Hour-Glass

Impending,

Pending,

  Liquefying as fluid stardust...

Evaporated.  Dispersed.
Submersed.
  Gone.

Under your belly, I refrain from breath, testing myself,
Gasping and scattering in flashbacks.

  The history of malintent, as extenuated as another blade of grass-

A Hellish karmic cycle of thought prisons and breaking free.

  I have slipped back into some blanket of time.  A reversal of choices made so I can re-choose an outcome.  Sipping on me is as though sinking into an hourglass of continuos sands.
My pebbles-scores of ware from other lands.
  Of pearls or lavas, titanium, or stone, my sands come from a universe.
A sip, starts the journey.

  A sea of definitives, I lumber across the deep red, engulfed in a buoyant repeal of state
I could be trapped here forever, and yet always must I,
Return.