I, Atlantis

i am a leaning tower, spiraling out; my infrastructure, golden beams, and one with my surroundings, like a trained warrior: blind, and bound to duty by code and by honor. i flow from within myself, out into the cold, readjusting climates for miles.

my warmth is domineering.

the maturity of my masculinity challenges tradition, gender roles and preconceptions; centuries of history.

i am the essence of men; i am beauty

the wetness that does not dri;
the cut that can not heal, and its color;

i am a never-ending song, or story.

lurking beneath my methods and whimsy are passions that cultivate themselves. their edges sharpen on my instincts and teeth, creeping beneath the dualistic battle for balance that erects my facade of sanity

precious sunlight is pinned in reflective sheets that caress the bare bones of my aura, and fall
i am washed,

and there is heat.

this is the heat of women,
anticipating touch, and wise hands
anticipating appendages, wise without sobriety

drunken digits, willing to steal that which belongs in their possession: the infinite and lingering pleasures of curiosities with no arrogances, or the bitter aftertastes of knowledge and experience.

i am boiling as parasites churn too deep to be turned, as earth, over or up; too deep to be exposed. i am decay, and yet, i grow.

my awakening seed
polishes the filth of this city