What
for symbolism, a woman’s life, an earshot from touché;
and
less the bellicose, a tribe of men, slowly cultivated. I
thought
enchantress, heaven for liturgy, something nudging
a
soul. So awash for midnight blues, to wince at terror, to
clutch
for sanity. I drift.
Open
the satchel, a set of brown-eyes, a spectacle of artwork.
I
have a booklet, torn; it breathes sore a heart, with thoughts
closed;
for we challenge stairs, to climb success, two steps
shy.
Meet
me there, a patio of cigars, plus—holy weeping. Let us
flit
to fly, through noonday prayer, kindhearted aflame. Else
for
midday woes, painted scars, and carpets made of misery.
We
scream aloud, to a silent crowd, unheard securely; for guilt
dissipates,
a circuit charges, a seed blossoms. Its fortune to
see,
and pressure to see, and realize the unseen.
