“Please
believe me”; and I believed her. She was frantic, yearning for oxygen,
somewhere dead. How for hope—a body to dangle, and pass lifeless?
I see for memories, to find for
clean, a mother’s nightmare.
She
died with such passion; and lived with such anger; a friend of
souls.
We hassle for grays, and sore deceit, voices to the wind. I
carry
it, to tiptoe hell—a nature unclad. We’re moonlit pegs for
sorrow;
for they speak distance, to harpoon emotion, to mold for
zombies.
I wash a memory, to feature mother, a young queen.
I clung to reason, disenchanted, nearly
a scientist. It gleamed
and
I ignored it, a picture painted. The sun wailed, to wobble free,
where
bees hummed. I spoke silence, caressing death, as cold as
icebergs.
I carry it, a spotlighted rain, to harvest guilt. More meant
more,
and pages tore—an internal debt. She was human, and I was
brick,
and washed in madness.
I couldn’t find it, a need for ours, to
fracture dreams. It was
endless,
a fusion of pains, a thrumming hatred; for so many years—a
wealth
of dying, a novel snagged. We acted for love, and wrestled
bears,
to camp for woes. A piece has died, to chase for life, afraid to
breathe.
We blew a fuse, to scream and laugh, to walk a time bomb.
I
see for memories, to find for clean, a mother’s nightmare.
