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.