We
often see trauma, something to scrape a heart, tiptoeing
ripples.
It reminds us, where memories soar, condemning a
conscience.
I watch you in my absence, lost in my study, and
ever
congested. It’s an anxious miracle, to want for life,
afraid
of life. My world: Is it isolated, where I see a sandbox,
as
opposed to a suffering soul? Indeed, I’m there, dying,
crying
at a circus. How to carry it, the heaviest rose, a
timeless
pain? We walk a poodle, to raise a vulture, something
eating
at a lining. I couldn’t speak, and I wouldn’t speak, and
art
was raging. It’s near a furnace—my life, staring at a hand,
one
to live unknown. But find comfort, where rain is a gift,
indeed,
a job to do! I’ll float a storm, to grip a prayer, kneeling
at
a portico. Its everso complicated, to find it there, screaming
at
faces. It doesn’t escape, featured in psyches, an all life
cinema.
So I commend you, where I dare evade you, falling to
a shaggy carpet.
