I
can’t say it, as it bottles up, carving mirrors. So we journey,
often
to forgive, wrestling an unsaid. I took the classes,
where
elements were forgotten. I need to trust, a need for
groups,
to tackle a mirror; for such as sternness, to culture
madness,
a need for yoga. There you are, beating drums, a
stranger
of midnight. This is unfair, for light is new, where
hell
took heart. Thus, midnight lives, even a friend, nipping
at
threads. I’m through you, an image of you, wrestling an
unsaid.
Abyss is natural, to open graves, an actor’s award.
I
get found, to pace laps, arguing with an unseen. I know a
position,
a hidden motive, even for truth. I need to trust, even
a
danger, a stranger’s steering wheel. I’m lost for facts, even
control,
running from groups; but life is study, acquired arts,
revving
engines.
To
hear contention, and ponder self, as torn realities! something
must
give. Indeed, blanks are uttered, to sense for self, to
teach
a soul; where blanks are real, a subtle disguise, nearly
oblivious.
I’m there, to shuffle through thoughts, screaming at
stop
signs. So more for words, to usher words, where truth is
shielded.
We must for knowledge, where all is improv,
a flight’s
manifestation.
I want for more, something even, as opposed to
needles;
but more for mirrors, ever lost, painting blank smiles.
