So
many pages
a
mind of landscapes
mourning
through
Christmas.
I
feel it like candy, a pier of gray, as fuzzy as dreams. We
perish
a love grounded in fear; to scorn a love grounded
in
love. Such a want, for tattoo rites, and reading stop signs.
I
fell asleep, to channel for demons, to grip a cross. I
awoke—to
screaming eyes, fishing facial muscles. It’s a
frantic
page, and ghostly chills, a night alone; and much
a
death, alive and gone, as gifted as madmen.
We
trip to
fall,
and rise awake, knee high in pollution. I plant—to
pluck—a
raw infusion, deep in passion. I hear it like
visions,
neatly terrified, a long excursion. Its gothic love,
and
elfin ears, adrift a galaxy. I tip a toe, and tug a rope,
lost
for cries; and what to give, a pack of wolves—
grieving
through sundown?
We
turn a flame—of feathered stars, forevermore. We
die
and spin, and spin to die, addicted to life. Its teary
souls,
and fevered hearts, spinning graves.
