Rebel’s renaissance, made
up of nuclear détentes and
the more peculiar fonts of disenchantment.
This ain’t no Times New Roman but Helvetica,
a more kinetic shorthand
instead of beaten paths.
A beautiful wrath that wound me up like epitaphs, romanticizing collapse and emotion’s lapse in judgement, plot holes in logic’s math.
They tried to quarantine this romance,
masochistic dance with disillusion,
trying to diffuse the
trying to halt countdown chants to oblivion.
Threaded through a second chance at living with my unforgivens, I encourage the splitting atoms of my conscience to unite,
and I see light at the end of contingency,
but the concrete
Still, I fight, because the air still comes from