I
need more for signs, tugging fangs, where
a
fan spins
smoke.
There’s such a fog, where tones live,
to
rev an
engine.
We need for manna, to shape a ‘tour,
a
texture for
lights.
It’s in a picture, a bin of silks, plus, a
golden
locket.
I
read for fiction, something—so incomplete. He
spoke
of winds, metaphors for stress, to spin a nail.
Friends
cautioned, a man for peace, mourning regrets.
He
smiled, to shun a tear, a temper in the background.
It
was more for purpose—than show, to form a poetry
guild.
I
gather thoughts, rife with challenge,
warding
off a bitter calm. Its silence for rain, words for
grief,
and time for prayer. It’s more a quest, to cleanse a
soul,
to hear a mind. I tend to live, an anxious gray,
mulling
over freedoms; but more for love, and fragrant
signs,
peering into calmness. It’s ever challenged, as
something
gray, to live in a state of light.
Though
brief
we
were, for times of pain, living a bit clumsy; but years
mold, to scrape a
soul, grace for dry seasons.
