I
crossed a barrier, a jungle of
wild
valleys, and bold calligraphy.
I
was sightless to this venture,
found
in a thesis, palming webs
at
a creek. There’s a light,
shaded
in darkness, stressing my
follies.
I could cleanse hell, and
wave
mystic, and her eyes would
still
loathe me. So I journey
through
meadows,
verse to verse,
wrestling
a voiceprint.
Wherefrom
a passion,
reading
Confucius, and musing
through
a library. I felt it in
my
strength, pausing through consciousness,
trekking
through mucky thoughts.
I
wish to till a garden, planting fruits,
only
to hear sad eyes. This is math,
eternal
calculations, mapping
out
convictions.
Through
a weary heart, a future
is
war, condemning would be
friends.
But I wrote in haste,
repenting
soon, where humans
rage
forever. It was heaven a rose,
and
diamond petals, plucked
by
cosmic swans. I rest in teardrops,
churchyard
to Ghost, musing
antique
furniture.
Was
it us drifting through a
storm,
gothic in our notions,
tugging
at a relic star? I ask,
feeling
a heartquake,
chanting
to God. It was ever our journals,
nudging
our memories, where
events
came to pass.
Nothing
but facts—changes a
thought,
a freedom young,
adrift
a carriage. But stiffness
mourns,
tugging upon falsity,
screaming
in a cellar.
