It’s
a different experience, more than heaviness, it’s a sense
of
intelligence. It’s me, in me, a touch of strangerhood. I
puff
a cigar, engulfed in presence, where silence is haunted.
Sleep
is controversial, ever a storm, pushing froward a bed.
There’s
shadowed contempt, to gnaw and claw, buffing a
tomb.
I need right now, where only future is offered. So I
pray
a distant event, tilling raindrops.
Something
offers happiness, a set of events. I want for joy,
where
a feeling’s rejected, unable to part sludge. What for
pastime,
struggling each sentence, consecrating freedoms.
I
reach for soils, roots within self, careful to maze through
mirrors.
It was ever this time, a tempest wind, where coffee
fails
to stimulate.
To
ponder at length, a howling hawk, heavy in this station.
Even
stillness is awkward, something probing me, a me that
feigns
to be me. I bear an element, girded in malaise, ever
seated
at my being. It’s rearing sorrow, a house of
melancholia.
So I spark a feeling, to face daybreak, searching
for
an upsurge.
