Oh
for glory, to soar the deathless, spinning our graves.
I’m
nighted, raging for light, missing for scenery. She’s
a
gothic rill, streaming through glory, a pitch black
nightmare;
but oh for petals painted purple; and oh for
sight
a deadly serpent. We thirst such poison, to
scribble
through beige—met in a middle. I’m there, a
runaway
falcon, to morph with human legs. Oh for
madness,
and icing, a gothic cake; and oh for daughters,
filled
with visions, to scrape bare a pink diamond; and
oh
for mothers, to strip silence, and paint for glee. I’m
something
rotten, soaring for holy, to covet a violin.
Our
day for goblins, and lithic tools, spooling through
courtrooms.
We mourn it, ever to meet it, challenged
by
violet strings. I sold for soul, to thresh for poet, racing
through
darkness. Now for ghosts, and mental physics,
clad
in visions; and oft to feel, a cryptic soul, pulled and
shredded.
Oh this mind, a fever filtered, a flavor fraught.
