Through
billows and storms we tilt into darkness. Is it
awake
to
pillage souls, as pensive as an infant falling? I’m
found
for lost, as wistful as a widow, to boil a trinket.
I
wrestle daily, as conscious as unborn, as sacral as
grails.
Emotion is present, to steer for reason, a need
to
scream; and What Now?—to feel it
laughing,
pushing
for credence, a mirror spinning through
lights.
I’m there, a child, as rageful as wounded cops.
I
fall into a dream, ever to tremble, where mother
whispers:
It’s for pain, to unlock souls, where
forgiveness
prevails. The sun was
fallin’, where a riddle gave life;
and
albeit buried, he heard his mother’s voice. We died
a
future, scribbling ink, chatting with grandmother.
We
perished a night, to rise as thieves, and fall as
scoundrels.
I wrestle nightly, where cameras flash, if
only
to capture this image. Its murky lights and souls
of
marsh counting seeds. I love her like hell is free; as
I
pace, blaring music, swearing to a last cigar. We knew
for
death, cleaving to promise, to embrace death’s
behavior.
What is this love, spinning through fortunes,
to thirst for scars? I
ask—teary eyed, plus confused.
