I
reach for fate and life, ever bathing in ink, script to soul—
and
soul to script. It’s deeper than dungeons, a tragic
beauty,
rifted in alleluias. We’re anxious for glory, a
mirror’s
stranger, popping, drinking, or smoking. I met
you
while facing death, astounded at meeting death, a
terror
for mining death. Such pensive days, fraught with
paradox,
heavily heated in sadness. We claw a chimney,
for
metaphorical soot, two in a half dozen stressing
passions.
Delusion
so simple, a must escape, peering into valleys.
It’s
so naked, a mixed perception, from cradle to grave.
How
close our panic, sorely unbolted, climbing endless
staircases?
I mumble, condemn self, and set sail skyward.
It
was ever your style, such midnight glory, where I ignored
retribution,
indulging anxious contemplation.
