It’s
so unfair…for one to hassle, to provoke explosion, and then
feign
frightened.
What
for this life the tendons of sanity disguised in madness? I
nestle
grass, nettled deeply, gripping noonday liquor. It’s a weedy
cloud
to wiggle free weaving fabric. I’m wine and ash—a me to
trickle
through sky-born debris.
There’s
a dragonfly mocking infirmity and demanding respect. I
laugh—soon
to return—clawing for freedom; for it seems absurd—
a
night in London, exchanged for a life in hell.
Its
wooden vows to freely furnace a fortress of mistakes; where
revision
is comedy, ever an impulse, to furnace hostility. So
anger
trumps anger, where said anger adjudges anger. We took a
pet
bull to chastise it. It acted out. So we put it to sleep. (Merely example)
If
I search for rage, to receive rage, then I’m justified; but if rage
is
met with silence, then I must regroup. It’s unlikely that attitude
courts
a positive; but ideally, compassion heals a nation. What for
the
pet bull? We used rage to seek rage and then punished rage.
I’ve
jinxed a process where one becomes obsessed. The mailman
is
astonished to greet for an irate lady. She wants for a positive,
ever
to feed with a negative. The mailman shuts down; and the
lady
becomes more irate. This is behavior—a diary flung to the
winds.
