So
many cycled wars, a heaviness keen, where dreams
gasp
for breath. There’s fulgence to a wound, a world of
scars.
Each a sunbeam, ever drilling, where mind tips
towards
grace. I search a calm thought, seeking solace,
disturbed
by frazzled thoughts. But gift to soul, a
flowing
wind, where endurance soars. I mention softly,
a
cycled war, a specter scale. Life streams for more,
somewhere
low, wrapped in stillness. I try to move, a
gated
wall, somewhere near a four. It comes to pass, a
spell
of stealth, ever my storm. I break in parts, dearly a
fantast,
awaiting another cycle. As fantasts hearts, we
drift
a fortress, discovering secret corners. Some cleave to
light,
others science, plus, some do both. Genetic lesions,
probe
for breath, sticky from band-aids. I live it high—to
live it low,
struggling to play pretend.
