The(ir) need

Grey tiled floor, a machine with gum balls at my right.
”Departure gates”. Frazzled dreams spent on their way
To skyline, above clouds, abased
In some excoriating mists.
7 plus one million people, yet no ‘suitable’ gamete.
(for completion)
Immiscible: an ideal and a real?
Splurge on bitter slugs. Filling, fulfilling.
The mimicry of a gnat,
A prolepsis of sucking and draining?
To use pegs and retain the dregs
Of integrity, of indestructible fantasy.
No recoil?
A coldness around unsliced wrists. A dove
Behind a third eye, inside a veridical flight
Over their realities, their flavors, their currency.
A desiccated bosh!
There is no without them. Their flippancy
Uproots the baleful moods,
Encloses the inner floods
Of despair, of nothingness, of recklessness.
And it replaces everything with hope.
Hope. Hope. Hope.
To unearth the supreme, to resist the extreme
Volatility from within.

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