When
it appears as if hopeless we journey through mind-
caves
saturated with grief to grip upon a groan. It’s sheer
resilience
ever to find self sitting at an altar making
sacrifice.
What for panacea a stiff intoxicant coupled
with
a cigar. Oh for this maze a soul torn lost in Alcatraz.
We
perish for birth semi-aphotic surging with sullen
voltage
sprinting towards Ash Wednesday. If only to
confirm
a wound grounded in an invent where all isn’t
invisible.
Such is chi to soar through another’s iceberg
unscathed.
What for this love ever for stars haunted by
compassion.
Its Rembrandt’s art, Picasso’s sculptures, and
woman’s
literature. What for these things a mind
swimming
through fevers ever an incantation fiddling
with
a linchpin; for so much pressure ever for comatose
weaving
nightmares; whereby a heart thumps through
beats
wheezing for justice. It’s mainly undercurrents, else
to
tread gravel headed for desert alone with hell. How to
flee
a cauldron where particles of flame leap into a soul
ever
to furnish a den? We sit in patience to speak with
force
wrestling through adjectives. We describe our
anguish
with tentacles to feel for compassion. What for
its
absence torn for exhausted ever to hold on; whereat
hope
flutters through rivers reaching for a life-vest.
