Developing disasters

To developing disasters into a work of art,
Like cracked lips sucking onto a lemon,
Like mascara in competition against the wind,
Like red eyes on a smouldering summer Sunday.
Do you do this intentionally?
Or for the love of extortion?
To gain my interest and yet kill me instantly?
Twig in cold like that unlatching friendship,
To a model to keep us apart,
Such stupid intelligence.
And pains indistinguishable,
From diversity in rains,
Of confidentiality,
Of exquisite emotional equivalence,
Of conniving convenience,
And of developing disasters.
How lame the worlds are?
Suffering silently in syndrome.
And make me a gravity of a scar,
Forbidding my immortality,
And basking in attainable attenuations,
Like a paper on the verge of dissolving.
The depth in those wounds remains,
Not with bullets or swords or goons,
But with love and laughter,
And that my friend is the only thing,
In this world that doesn't hurt.