from a height

Memory is the flower
that is like a mirror
of sorrow and tomorrow

I have taken
onto the nipple
of eternity
through all milk
accrued in the instant

my aim
then is the arrow
of long melancholy
shot from your vastness
of hollowness

this land
where the orange orgasm
of massiveness
clouds the surface

there in that silk
of milk
I surrender
like a borrowed

Nihilistic Poetry

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