We
hassle over blue jeans pearly naked screaming nonsense.
I’m
twilight grains seeping into roots and ever my life.
Such
for chills a dove yet to sprout and flapping wildly.
It
never works a world crimson gold to omit an apology.
What
for our lives to speak of evidence to bleed a shower.
We
died a rapture and so many fears to lie down and cry;
but
florid dreams and floret prayers reach into nightmares.
I
feel you angry, ever to seethe, bent on hell: Does it beat?
I
ask to live an aria flooded with scenes screaming, It was
us. Never designer
woes and ever tender sighs. Is it true:
a
want for more where more is reaching a faceless voice?
I’m
twilight cries and broken armoires and cedar chest
memories.
Such an inrush, a moment in time, a heartbeat of
butterflies.
I awoke a demon, to seek a mass, where shards
ruptured
music. More to sing, a fantast’s life, a fortress
scarred.
Its nonplus rice, a bowl of broccoli, and a hellish
fever.
I speak to wounds knitted in droves where scruples
perish.
Are we human—and vexed sorely, flipping through
batteries?
Indeed a mountain, bleeding shame, and full
affected.
I grab a cigar to ponder resistance eager for amends;
but
life is gray, and pain is dark, for a laudable move.
