This
feeling of sheer possession to scramble within motion;
and
more this oxygen to grapple with unsaid forces. Open
for
skylights ever this dream to flit for flight alert to failing.
He’s
so cold and compassionate and clogged to scurry
through
abyss. Ever to see for hands to smother bodies
screaming,
“Flee.” He sits in venom as silent as venom
skiing
a rapid venom; and so more this living death—eyes
dripping
mercy; and so more this dying life—to ever his
breath.
Such to sip it as toxic as gin to seep through veins;
and
less the poison—for more to flip fully spasmatic. Oh
for
daffodils a drop of beauty as contagious as tattoos—as
deadly
as ink. He falls a risen height to hold for locks and
keys
adrift lagoons to thirst for rains. Oh for thunder and bolts
a
padlock fortress gripping for freedom; for boundless this
war
a sheer affection ever to tip into daylight; and poured into
twain
colors to stir into frenzy a rhapsodic rapture. He
breathes
but a fraction of limits’ breath raging unto glory. Oh
to
languish and floor a pedal drifting through traffic.
