We
hold fevers, plus coldness, to vet a position, streaming
through
madness. It’s chills for warmth.
I’m
winter this way, affronted
slowly.
We know her through literature, to vie for her
station.
Every flame a nugget, a soul howling, afraid to
freedom.
Let
us live, a placeless lot, to symbol for patience. Sammy
fawned,
filled with liquor, to skateboard a mask. We see it
in
brief, found in brevity, to miss for agony.
Her
robe is mourning, a hybrid moon, somewhat closed.
We
speak a tongue, to miss for language, to witness nights
rising,
ever photogenic.
He
couldn’t smile, to purchase riches, to tap while dancing.
We
cried his name, to read a eulogy, while time passed his
grave.
It’s
more for culture, to wail for culture, where culture is a
synonym
for lonely; thus, it’s more for love, a velvet love
to
yell, “Culture.”
We
saw it boldly, to barely vote, a village of merchants.
Something
for life, an inner movement, speaking to King
and
Malcolm. It’s both for dream and nightmare, where a
fever
has struck a nation. Hearts are elevating to seek
humanity,
where minds challenge every notion. We’re there,
tilling
farms, to paper banks, to search out paradise.
