Something
fitful, a turn from passive, and flown afar. It’s
a
son unraveled, to trek a knoll, and driven by a moral. I
see
it in beige, to filter for black, a picture painted white.
They
give us mud, and scarce for straw, to speak for bricks.
I
see it in teal, a nettled soul, skipping cobwebs. It’s near
insane—to
break a god, and claim for normal. Such levity,
to
cull for love, as if life is pain. It’s more dung, for cotton
candy,
screaming, “It’s normal.” I watch this word, as
sturdy
as cotton jeans, a touch of infection. Its mahogany
wood,
altered by mildew, found in fancies. It’s too a
consensus,
the best for offer, and melodramatic. I’m gone,
adrift
a countryside, to hear a lecture; and more for life,
to
sit through rain, a dripping bloodstream. Was it sunbeams,
to
dig for venom, a theory breathing through brains; and
does
it sing, an absolute nature, where it must be true? I
hear
for science, to jettison debris, and cleave to facts; but
hell
wrought a falcon, where pain was kept, of more worth
than
the present. I strew a seed, and seethe a brew, found in
contemplation;
and every vessel gripping stars, aware of hell.
