Ever
cryptic this faith of concrete webs grieving towards
nets.
Upon impact we fractured—spread in fragments ever
to
piece particles of fever. I mystic through eyes to
cultic
this life, where padded greetings turn to fire. There’s
something
there, an inward séance, a bouquet of stemmed
deaths.
So many charades, a kettle of tears, nibbling roots
of
a poison tree. I dared to mingle where terror tore a
mirror,
transforming passions into frequencies. She
trekked
nightmares ever to cascade souls, reaching for the
voices
of mermaids. I’m something of a seashell more to
wrap
in waves lunging towards a life-sound. We wake in
silence
even to glisten weeping alchemic high-falls. I’m
there
to scratch souls, ever to be searched. Our hearts torn
in
surgeries, nestling ash, scribbling a midnight sermon. It’s
asleep
mystic, raging through pathways, an abstract river.
