influenced by beckett.

They come,
Different and the same.
With each the insanity is different,
With each the shape of lust is the same.
Shameless.

Darkness over the face of the deep
Earth, shapeliness forming out of
Waste,
Void.
Nothing.

Empty.
With each the lack of love is palpable.
With each the relief they get after they fall or fail lifts and buoys them up.

Different and similar?
Different in the end
Though the same.
I remain or have ended up sane.
Behind the seemingly shapely-shapeless shamelessness of my lust.

They still come.
But.
Love is Elsewhere.
Yet.