His
reach is valleys, to baptize a soul, to chisel naivety.
He’s
scorned, even contemned, to balance a tightrope.
Life
is more for colors, even nightmares, and countless
joys.
In reverse, life is more existence, a terrible myth.
Such
is lies, for life is here, positioned between tokes.
Thoughts
are slanted, for life was there, checkered in
turmoil.
He plants a seed, to tillage for crops, palming
rain.
There’s a sickle for life, a stubborn grain, rooted
in
concrete. She tassels words, to unpack stanzas, even
more
for life. He transfers a thought, where doves flap
minds,
to trickle an epiphany. She pulls a shade, to
retrieve
a trinket, ever for ritual. A dance ensues, to
venture
through Ka, to structure life. Such are truths,
where
life is here, ever to be there; for life is chi, even
breath,
a world of magnets. She loves for life, a friend
of
life, to peddle a Schwinn. He spins a prayer, to signal
chills,
to paint a universe; for life is fey, an inner
Kingdom,
even a strobe-light.
