I
venture to write, if only to see, to filter a caveat. We
stand
aloof, a friend of swans, eager to reappear. I say
we,
if only to feel it, a step behind self. What for
winning,
to dream in purple, as royal as praise. I’m a
knee
in, to reckon chi, to grip mica. Was I there—to
see
Scripture—even a first born? I did it—to receive it,
and
mother cringes. We die daily, an old self to perish,
and
wait for sin. Such a secret—soon revealed, colored
in
nonchalance. I spoke for truth,
something laughed
upon—a
must to tell. We lived for lies,
sudden pains,
and
the grit of a false future. It’s dearly dramatic, to
haunt
a soul, an uneven number; and thus, a base founded
in
zeros, to claim organic. I drift, to feature a torment,
riddled
in addiction; and how long, prior to chills, rocking
softly?
I remember bells, and sullen wine, so far for close.
A
wolf was king, praised through mind, as known as a
leaf.
Is it joy, ever to reach, where flame is queen? I ask—
founded
in a dream, to write an essay. It’s been time, to
laugh
freely, to ignore suspicion. Is it ever giddy, a sea
of
keys, a guarded lock? I drift, to smile a flight, to
wrestle
self; and there she stands, clad in sky-beams, waving
a
feather. Prom is rites, a heart’s engagement, to see it
through
a portrait. I see a gate, and grace is breathing,
flown
into a pretzel. I hear for twilight, a twinge of trouble,
where
light is shrouded. It’s more a rhythm, where structure
is
voice, as opposed to roots. I drift, to admire for silence, a
female
sage, grounded in chi. We spoke in brief, a scarf for
words,
to part unaffected. Years have felt presence, staring
into
reflections, to see for a new self; and so lost to drive,
blaring for jazz, to
flit and fly into mesto.
