Dear Journal

Such meanness, a gentle kiss,

more for midnight hours. We

rock so steady, enlove with

tension, swatting smoke. I sung

misery, The Realm of Ghosts,

where thunder struck. I’m

more for purpose, to sort regrets,

proud of a given flame. Lives

are flung, to search a cure,

streaming lullabies. We strike

for madness, more for honey,

spewing a bitter taste. I’m

lost for music, reading symbols,

flushed with thoughts.

Somewhere up, and somewhere

down, mourning connectives.

I’m more for verbs, and feyic

nouns, to couple 

adjectives.

There’s a friend, a

genius mind, sorting through

grains; but life is wings, to impart

a soul, trekking through fens.

I heard a gesture. It cried rain;

somewhat hurt; but larks are

soaring, geese are strolling, and

thoughts are raining. I’m less

for mad, but more to heal,

tiptoeing a dirge. Souls are born;

I often forget; somewhere in Lamentations;

but hear for hawks,

to sway a nerve, aspark for life.

I speak—to grasp,

gleaning sparks. So more for

opera, a field of arcs, surging
through

souls.