There’s nothing more to say
About the pleasures of my flesh-
That story has been told
And rewritten multiple times.
Each ending is particularly
Unsatisfying
But I doubt that that’s the point.
I’ve been told it’s in the journey=
Those words often spoken
By heart’s who still beat-
Have the stale taste of blood.
I could never
Commit to that-
The recycling
And ever motion of forever.
But I’ve dreamt of it,
Desired the taste
And spilt childish blood and hours
Dreaming over the possibilities
Of the closure.

The closure of the animalistic self
And beginnings
Of what the society dictates
As acceptable.
Created from dust or evolved beyond monkeys.
The end result is still the same
The earth consumes us all
Regardless of the number of days
Spent in men.