What
for conflict, a form of therapy, where none submits;
and
what for warfare, to never pose gray, an attitude wild.
I
thought for peace, to feel for jaded, aching through
addictions.
Some so subtle, a scented cigar; and some so
fragrant,
a woman’s odor. I died in youth, yearning for
teenage
years, as old as elders. I now fiddle with a flute,
to
chisel a sentence, running from a smile. We see it so
differently;
where clients listen, with little for reason. I
walk
somewhere, fraught with similarity, even suspense.
I
want for myrtle trees, dogwood worries—a night filled
with
laughter. It’s something gentle, for a dreadlock soul,
mourning
a barrowed reality. We see for secrets, where I
waltz
behind, at a turtle’s pace. There’s grief for ambition;
a
dread for yesterday; plus, a need to avoid trauma. It’s
not
old to prove good; and it’s not new to prove gray: it’s
a
wealth of ambiguity; thus, if one is unfamiliar, we
explain;
else, the entire project is marshland. We do not
fraught
the winds, when flame erupts. We look to mirrors.
We
harness life, to rid for anger, thawing out raw pains.
I
saw for kingdoms, semi-split, to grieve mystic silence.
We
never spoke, for souls to seek, a tribal situation. It
lives
for resistance, when light is volume, pushing towards
destruction.
We know such things, to feel such gray, an
inward
attendant.
