Think of this poem as a song, as if over and over, you feel the repeat button impregnate your skull. Think of your voice as a melody, so sweet yet bestial, that invigorates so deeply.

And it's not enough to be good for someone who isn't really dead
It is the nectar of a ward, a targe that tarnishes your baby toes

Think of sustenance, as not. As your flailing dead atop a black sand beach. Supine in splendor. Think of this hand, as fingerless, so it may be but a neutral ball of flesh, so that my palm will caress your cheek.

And it's not enough to understand too deep a lie listless
It is the contusion of an insult wrapped in Armageddon.

Think of your babbling, as sincerely babble. So that I may close my ears, sew them shut with your heartstrings. Think of the Babel, as not a tower, but ruins. Now, stop. Silence.