It
travels deeply, such words and vice, clearing out a soul.
What
is this light of anger, to dissipate with hours, where
tears
form a pond? I rock, and rub a leg, pacing through
realities.
What am I to give: my very soul? I laugh not, for
trauma
breathes, peering into realities. Leave us not to
wormwood,
gnawing upon briers, closely devastated. A
force
will come, where uneasiness ensues, to turn a
conscious.
But ever a mirror, staring hard at self, semi-
drenched
in pain. I bless ever word, a quasi-talisman,
reading
into a heart. How to voice vice, where vice is in
anguish,
tending to vice? I pause!
It
travels deeply, such rain and light, clearing out
trespassers.
If only to reap a harvest, pushing towards life,
as
opposed to painting self. I laugh not, infused with
grit,
in truth, to fall short. But a countenance speaks truth,
oracle
to soul. Never such, and never would, unsteady
about
the word, never. I like, and I dislike, free to speak
love,
somewhat concerned with personal matters. I’ve said
little,
to live much, disposed to provoke, because of
disposition.
