upon reading your poem
Tremor^

and this what I think:
when reading your seamless
writing connecting of moments
of immortality,

only one question remains,
why, does our own writing
not approach the level of your exquisite precision
soul's *******?

is it our
own immorality
that permits our soon-to-be-
discontinued pretenses,
wherein, whereby,
we can still believe
our own words should be
deservedly disowned,
disinherited to the
scrap heap heated,
burned, eradicated
and
why do we even try?

sigh
>.<
dare not read it twice,
lest my inked fingertips
surrender to my
indecent indecision