This Isn’t Sigh-Fi

Wearing a hooded Moroccan jubba of an Aries today

These are words that arose as I weep and I pray

‘Forgive the purging of this soul, body made of clay’

The lowest stitch has Love’s needle and thread sown

To interstellar heights has its embrace flown

But what of hearts comprised of gravel and stone

That cut chords and never bother to pick up the phone

The shallow puddle of love’s derivative which she operated from

Couldn’t withstand a few rays and gentle wind of the morning sun

Gone back again, a mirage akin to the monster of loch ness

I just got out of the hospital

and she could care less

It’s from الله