suckle

The skies, fake upon our departure
Sightings of your inked sign upon
Existence - fearing only your perception;
Rather, how you are perceived.
Can one change her identity, or
Only how she is perceived?
We are artists of perception
Idolizing identity, squabbling with
Death's one true xanthippe. Our departures
Somehow signify the constant conception
Of identity, only if we choose to remain in its womb
Suckling existence as it comes.
Remaining in our identity
Rejecting the open palm of perception perfectly-
Existence cannot be signed without blood
Which has more colors than any ink
And is erased quicker than lead;
Blood is as vicissitudinous as being
And is being
Which is an ethereal eyelash of existence.


The porous moon
Feigns its supposed relation to the sky
In common sightings necessary to departures-
Unconcerned with its perception;
Pure, brilliant and ever changing:
Unrelating eternity.