from Trilogy/adam fieled

#2107

Infinite complexities of pleasure, pain—

how the natural world impinges upon

humanity’s artifice— we are at the sky’s

mercy, it casts its complexities in color

upon what we attempt to blacken/whiten—

how pathetically fallacious we are. I climb,

perfect images of measly minds here to

deal hemp mock my impatient teardrops—

but cleanliness, here, is the soul’s last stop—