my mortinate invigorate

fish hook, inner cheek
in the depths a crimson cloud
is just black ink
dead beak, outer lip
we all rise, then sink

sometimes there is a deadness
it stinks of old meat
its more alive
it is the grit of unwashed
salad leaf between your teeth

it is the spikes of sleep in your eye
the nail cut too short
wet with blood

the splinter you cannot pry
from your flesh's
mulish vice

this energy is
every
single
pixel
of life

there is no perfection
beauty is beheld deep
in the imperfect details
through obstinate obsession

nothing but a mindful cession
of fantasy.
choose frayed but real.
and pray it may invigorate
your inner mortinate.