What’s
outward, a prompted appearance, more
complaisance?
This
is cordial, but often resisted, where stress ensues.
We
affect
for peace, where peace is wanting, to frustrate
peace.
I’m calm with silence, and uncalm with silence,
where
silence traumatizes. To behave is to comply;
where
ideally, blind compliance—is frowned upon. I
drift.
It
was ever zeal, a flux of passions, an unspoken rhythm.
We
soared in flames, sealed in silence, to rebirth pains.
I’m
chained to our sorrows, in need of a clearing, from
soul
to soul. It’s ever for pith, a subtle gash, leaking
into
a conscious. We seize for power, enlove with
comforts,
affronted by opposition. It’s such a rift, a
plain
embarrassment, to waft through hells; but more
for
rain, to open souls, to pant through meadows.
I
sighed when heaven broke, to trek a grave, to shatter
caskets.
There was such a veil, a broken latch, where
demons
flew. Nature was flogged, a spell grew wings, a
cauldron
was brewing. I wanted for peace, where peace
had
perished, for want of control. A spirit sobbed, to
whelm
a soul, channeled for trances. So many wishes,
a
futile pressure,
running
through dungeons.
Lights
were dim, an urge was burning, ever to perish.
Something
died, where thorns flourished, to surge
through
psyches;
but once for ardor, to stand a prow, to pet a
grackle.
We
perish so lightly, to feel so heavy, a rasp to souls. We
gnaw
seaweeds, lost for esoteric, to glamorize pains. I
blare
it loudly, “Something is missing,” a fraction of life.
I
give for peace, to unchain thoughts, found in a ripple;
for
guts are churning, acid is stirring, calling to let live.
This is life, despite
a claim, ever to face it.
