Life
is triumph, war to war, grieving in silence. So probe a
contour,
a mental disposition, staring at toys. I moved one,
to
capture years, the pains of a clown. A woman watched,
faint
in trance, stalking through a childhood. I nodded,
and
walked away. I left her slanted, peering into sludge,
living
through a kite. But we’re wingless, ever to freefall,
landing
near friction. I gazed as a child, reaching into
chaos,
far beyond my days. I knew that pain did damage,
genetically
disposed, bouncing freely. It spoke a language,
a
rapture of kettles, where even smoke rained in heaviness.
A
person grips strength, draining a cactus, enduring for
years;
where one offers help, a group of months, pouring
out
turmoil. Tools are acquired, where heaviness remains,
haunting
a branded future. I see it this way, to give all, know
all,
and suffer the same; for genetic is genetic. But I ponder
such
therapy, where pain is reveled, ever explored in segments.
