2:19 a.m

Ag Synclair

some of us are compressed
in form
in function
into the tracings of revolutionary experiments
that fail

in all the muck brought up
from the guts of broken men

in all of the compressed faces
that will die alone

the subliminal machinations
will grind away

blood will be let
from every single vein
I ever loved

the perfect order of things
will become imperfect

love will become unattainable
and the lucky ones
will never know any of it.