I’m
sluggish, running through dungeons, ever to hear: "It’s
a
sickness, a blessing, a tinted curse." We speak, filled with
discontent,
counting raptures. I’m close a grapevine, even
a
winepress, struggling with sadness. It comes in waves,
to
precede chi, digging into a pavement. I’m crossed for
facts,
to live a Ghost, yearning for wisdom. If I perish softly,
to
rise harshly, a sun would fall; and what for gold, to
wrestle
darkness, afraid of a thought. I’m mixed, fully
addled,
tiptoeing nightmares; and there afar, ink is dripping,
to
pierce persona. I asked a name, a weekday curse, a
swami’s
habits. We drive a cloud, a samurai’s strengths,
kneeling
in oblations. So pour us out, to dance a light, neck
high
in spirits; for I’m black-diamonds, blue-birds—a
swarm
of heart-aches. It’s more for holy, to walk a curse,
where
all is silent. Oh an emerald, a semi-road-runner, a
melting
hallway. Call it prana, a need to
fly, a month of
fasting;
for wine was earth, for bread to breathe, torn into
tomorrow. So strike a wick, send a prayer, a mile into
sins.
