It’s
a female shaman, a silver rasp, a kernel to break free.
It’s
a different country, and African rites, the soul of France.
I
dance in it, to outfox self, to float freely. Was it freedom?—
and
pearl diamonds, a strong instinct? I move to shift,
drifting
through Spain, and looking at Natives. We’re
studded,
a sacral flare, to write as it falls. I can’t for love,
to
speak of love, shooting fireworks; and what for eyes,
speeding
through Europe, and feeling sullen; for life the
poet,
a mesto rite, an opus of words.
Ensoul for winds, to
stir
a brew, ever for love. If it spoke, to frighten a psych,
streaming
through your life; and more for Rome, to travel
through
myth, alive for minutes. I can’t to live it, a dear
afflatus,
a charming brooch; and off to Greece, to pamper
hearts,
familiar with all things. I’m but a child, a living
fable,
filled with illusions. Such for dreams, speeding through
heartbeats,
indebted for art. You spoke it to live it, to
sculpt
a mocking bird; and was it power, racing through
Italy,
even your life? The art is lethal, to surge a soul, falling
while
rising. I see it to live it to clamp a voice.
