We
see it differently, to live a cave, and swear for wisdom.
You’ve
died afraid of rebirth. It’s a gallon of liquor, a
cigarette
as sister, and a lifelong grudge. Feel for plaint,
a
nation of woes, a family gone. Was it us? It’s a bit
different,
scattered upon a map. Was it color? It’s a bit
the
same, a scandal inborn. We’re strangers, lost in
books,
to structure an answer; for it’s alright, for I’m
doing
it; but not a soul—to do it to me. We called it wisdom,
even
game, something different. It’s a web of years, to
play
pretend, ever to undermine. Was it us…ever to love,
to
form a flower? It was us, as distant as drugs—to feign
position;
to coddle dejection, aflare a dream, speeding
through
goodbyes. Our world a sink, ever clogged, to overflow.
We
see for soot, rusty pipes, a garb of mildew. Should he
die,
to win contempt—a total stranger? Where was it…to
witness
death, a murky valley. Its checkered truths, to
feign
for loss—a thing to discuss. We knew it—to see it—
they
died alone. So more for truths, where lies perish.
