These indescribed insides
These indescribed insides
latent with alcoholism
rife with the dullest passion
unbeknownst to man or woman
of its slow movement.
The way we sit in bed until
the pain of slumber throb eclipses
ever so slightly
the tedium of days,
the choosing what to do,
the richly sculpted grog
the way he pushes hardest to be coy
and dull, but when his
passion does kindle: against our cheek
against our opinions, it is too much,
the gradient is non-existent and
he seems two different storms
Neither quite notable.