Unravel
yarn, to witness life, as mature as sudden wisdom.
Every
barge a universe, slowly crucified, only to resurrect.
It’s
a cordial guillotine, a rites of passage, to die for life.
Love
complicates—an earnest voice, moved to utter,
“I
love you.” I’m fervid a sun, cozy with love, a silent kiss.
To
return, life is often rancid, a horrible odor; but life too, a
powerful
yen, a yielding pash. To be alive, filled with life,
composing
in one’s field. It grogs a soul, to flit aloft, staring
at
reflections. Something’s gentle, plus aggressive,
imposing
a sin. This is life, a subtle smile, where mirror’s
touch
soil.
Love
is fraught with smaze, a sheer affection, mingling with
our
hearts. This, too, is life, to grapple with meaning, to
suffer
a dirge. It was ever a cradle, filled with rapture, gazing
at
a dusky moon. Something’s comical, a tragic melody, where
love
is unfair. How to live, an anguish sung, swept into a
trance?
I ask, to ponder life, as realistic as death.
