Was
it justice…such a locomotive…a vase for a shadow?
We
scream it—soul-bound, a living voyage; and ever to
see
it…a small child…growing through destruction. Was
it
justice…a holy wound, traveling through father? Was
it
life…a felt-for grave…a holy mother? I’m sure for
unsure…to
voice a daughter…and skating dearly. It was
more
for love, a nightmare gone…to churn through
seasons.
We gather leaves…ever a tear…reading Nicki.
Mother
shears—for Sufi light…a dervish soul. I felt it
for
logic…to frighten a family…kneeling near a green vine.
It
was never for lies, and ever for love…running for a
door.
We played a game: I’ll teach it all, just
pay attention.
Oh
the rumors…to feature thunder…tearing through a
ghetto;
and how to fault—a churning wind…a kid with
child?
I read for journals, a slanted fruit…inflamed with
hell.
I pitch rock and stone…to witness for sight…a bounce
into
a future. We died to see it: I want to be
grown. Angels
laughed…tripping
and careworn…to scribble upon maps.
