It’s
a mountain, ever a legend, a sore addiction. I’m up
for
lows, a strong run, somewhat zenic. We take it Tao,
to
hold for secrets, and I hurt you. I carry this pain, a
silent
Aum, in need of swamis. Never touch it, to claim it,
headed
for rehab. It’s more limbic, a Sufis’ dance,
a
jaunt
through hells. I court it, a need for pens, and
consecration.
Dear God—it’s a must to catch—a son of
man.
See
for perish, a bleeding ba, split in
halves. I wrestle for
life,
to struggle with fey, to touch for eyes. I’m full, and
ever
athirst, the deepest bane; to live a nib, to greet a
daughter,
trekking with ka.
I’m
kef and music and ever for zeal; for so many waves—to
gnaw
for drugs, a ferric flight. I’m found for ink, to muse
for
Jesus, and jutted into conflict. I’m tipsy to stagger, to
wreak
of liquor, a mouth of smoke. I see you for seldom, to
feel
for friction, our souls at battle. Its mesto,
a sullen
presence,
captured in eyes. I walk to it, something Delphic,
a
secret temple; and every pang—a pier of growth, flipping
through
pages.
