We
dig deeply, to spark a flame, scented with joy. Pain
trickles,
to fall a pit, for knees to pavement.
It’s
a revelation, charmed by ghosts,
spirit
fully throttled.
I
seek more a mystery, channeled asleep, to witness visions.
A
mother passed, to haunt a mirror, where pains were
neglected.
Something
perished,
life
sprang anew,
where
crows gnawed a skeleton.
We
cried for love, to capture love, to run from love.
I
think of her name, broken in parts, to rid a memory;
but
it gives,
founded
in features,
screaming,
“He lives.”
Near
a bone, beneath abyss, lies a portrait, plus, a grieving
mirror.
It’s attic in design, a moment with father, a
daughter’s
heart-storm.
Its
vex for veil, a naïve outlook, until years culture.
What
to give, a teenage mind, warring dragons? I ask—fully
in
motion, to chisel a miracle.
So
many demons, courted by innocence, to mourn virginity.
I
etch a portrait.
It
bleeds sorrow
—a
want for joy
—something
sought as mystery.
What
is such fascination?
—to
cry to strangers
—for
such ideals
—where
said strangers are unknitted.
We
dig deeply, to harness flame, scented with woes.
So
legend tells,
of
a method soft,
to
generate a fortune.
I’ve
crawled to this hut,
to
build brick by brick,
a
palace filled with wonder.
It’s
truly a dream, but moments to breathe, to scud through
trauma.
