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repairing: the inevitable wound of change

so far,
emotionally transfixed

doing well off the morning horizon

not far from the clairvoyant mystery of dreams
I remain virulent
beyond understated motivations

and sincere in changing
the decaying while unearthing my infinite choices

what more can mourners mimic in the twilight?
and cataclysmic prayers have to offer in the dusk?

I am repairing the wound
my soul barely bleeds
from anymore

and supplant what doesn’t matter
with god’s mysterious energy
uninterrupted by conjecture and just sheer stupidity

and to hell with the naysayers
I haven’t the time to listen to empty ridicule

or explain the differences in being alive
and how conviction lives beyond the norms of the hive

and how i i repair the wound of constant change
by surviving it callous convictions