Behind the gallery

Behind the shooting gallery, in the backyard, 
people lie down quite and peaceful. 
They rally and breathe together.

I-will-achieve-the-prize-and-carry-
water-to-relieve-their-thirst.

I hardly remember what I once felt.
It's a strange feeling, for I usually rewind and 
feel most instances of déjà vu in my rain eyes.
Those memories are burned like wax paper.
The traces are thin and live underground.

It's most unusual for I don't seem to want to go back to those quarters of my memory where I once fathomed feelings, and reiterate the need for oxygen in my lungs at every journey of my breathing.

I wish I didn't have to think about it.
Same memories, same losses,
same disappointing routes and rerurns.

I don't want to feel drained when 
everything matters the same: hardly.

When I feel wetness I give myself the chance for a rebirth, for a celebration of hidden ceremonies, a translation of feelings into actions. 

I don't want to sink in the spirit misunderstood; I would like to grow and regard my past as a signal of cruel beauty, like imbecile pigeons that swallow pearls as bird food.

One day I must encounter the full understanding 
of the path towards uncertainty, drunken by 
achievement and lusciousness.

I still ambition to experiment with sprinting techniques, and then reveal my heart openings, those full body yawns and sexual yearnings; pace myself and rejoice in the knowing that, after all, we have what we are made of, despite irritating and inconvenient interruptions of fate and alarming stakes in fortune.