Utterance II

I yearn a deeper texture, where sanity is mad, as mad as sanity.

I’m merely a fantast, fraught with woes, screaming, a mirror

shattered. Such to swelter, filled with fever, nearly unbolted;

where angels swing lung to voice, and phantom to mind. We

swivet, rain to soul, nudging at opaque windows, kneeling for

fractured hearts; and something’s ascending, spirit and flame,

whisking through mind-waves. I gamble and spec a billion

on black, barely vatic enough to see. And this is my friend—

enough to stab my neck; and this is our life—enough to

cherish and die. And dear my God, our eyes, filled with humble

tears. I jog and pace, racing for glory, hidden, and filled with

pain. How do we die in chic? a mother’s nightmare! So urge

repentance—a surge of rapture, where ghosts emerge and seal

a soul; and this is our mind, colored in gray, flooded with love.