I recognize hate.

Hate keeps me from love.

It keeps me from home,

follows as I shop,

laughs when I walk by,

hovers when I sit

for a quick respite,

questions my motives,

speaks euphemisms

at me while laughing.

When confronted, hate,

denies wrongdoing

and then it labels

me as paranoid.

Hate contaminates.

Imagine our world

as it’s lost its faith,

wholly void of hope,

completely emptied

of the signs of Love.

Lust is the force discharged in the crash of two horizons each measuring the lifespan of time separating you from yourself.

It triggers the departure of your selves at the crossroads between the prospection of incessantness, and the boreal awareness of the corporeal resolution, towards the encounter with yourself in one moment of aliveness where malice and hope can cluster up in the ambiguity of a wish come true.