Did she spirit his soul, filled with fire, stranded at indecision?
Is
he I, fallin’ while stumbling, to perish a gray mirror? We
knew
for it, to believe in it, struggling through spirits. There’s
a
presence, a part for soul, and haunted dearly. We wrestle, to
war
for puppet, raging for a furnace-fire. Is he refined, to skip
through
demons, and ever touched? Something for death, a
life
of light, a twofold nature. It couldn’t be, and ever was,
racing
through speed bumps. He loved her like ghosts, stripped
to
shreds, and gasping harshly; but she’s with child, to forsake
a
mirror, cleaving to a best friend. Could I say I—speeding
through
spikes, to utter prophecy; and others, to watch his life,
filled
with an empire. We built it, a fortress gone, kissing silky
skin.
What was it, to rise and fall, over a hundred. We loved
for
it, barely with breath, and damn near kef’d out. Did he love
her,
too young to sing, and crooning passion. It was blur, where
music
screams, to pump out an album. We perished, ever to rise,
gripping
a baby’s palm. It was hope, overtaken, and cringing
violence. The voice
is nosy, a margin maze, a melody rising.
