It’s
more for mad, to charge a
soul,
somewhere the pavement.
Cycles
turn, to churn a mind,
where
silence flickers flame.
How
to reverse, to unplant seeds,
torn
with ripples? I chance
a
soul, to fly a sphere, girded by
discontent;
but how to live,
according
to strangers, probing
for
peace? It was ever a
gripe,
to bend a fortune, to fracture
gates.
We give it all, to reap a harvest,
coupled
with hells. More for
depth,
to scrape the marsh,
repeating
a single. How to fly,
netted—unshod,
to please a
stranger?
Would she smile, to
witness
control, to guide a poet?
I love
for more, to dress a
human,
through autonomy. We
drift,
fraught
with grief, chipping at
an
armoire. Our faces, dearly
distorted,
to confuse self. I want
for
glory, as opposed to rain,
where
both are interchangeable.
I
gave in haste, a fraction of
life,
a soul afflicted. I’ve met it,
strolling
Venus, sorely
discontent;
so why give, where
souls
melt, pushed back—for
dearly
selfish. I see it more, to
strip a soul, for a private
purpose;
but still to give, to feel
a
smile, ten miles behind.
